21 Robert Herrick

Hesperides

The Argument of His Book

  • I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
  • Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers ;
  • I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
  • Of bridegrooms, brides and of their bridal-cakes ;
  • I write of youth, of love, and have access
  • By these to sing of cleanly wantonness ;
  • I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
  • Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris ;
  • I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
  • How roses first came red and lilies white ;
  • I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
  • The court of Mab, and of the fairy king ;
  • I write of Hell ; I sing (and ever shall)
  • Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.
  • Upon the Loss of His Mistress

  • I have lost, and lately, these
  • Many dainty mistresses :
  • Stately Julia, prime of all :
  • Sappho next, a principal :
  • Smooth Anthea for a skin
  • White, and heaven-like Chrystalline :
  • Sweet Electra, and the choice
  • Myrrha for the lute and voice :
  • Next Corinna, for her wit,
  • And the graceful use of it :
  • With Perilla : all are gone ;
  • Only Herrick’s left alone
  • For to number sorrow by
  • Their departures hence, and die.
  • The Vine

  • I dream’d this mortal part of mine
  • Was Metamorphoz’d to a Vine;
  • Which crawling one and every way,
  • Enthrall’d my dainty Lucia.
  • Me thought, her long small legs & thighs
  • I with my Tendrils did surprize;
  • Her Belly, Buttocks, and her Waste
  • By my soft Nerv’lits were embrac’d:
  • About her head I writhing hung,
  • And with rich clusters (hid among
  • The leaves) her temples I behung:
  • So that my Lucia seem’d to me
  • Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
  • My curles about her neck did craule,
  • And armes and hands they did enthrall:
  • So that she could not freely stir,
  • (All parts there made one prisoner.)
  • But when I crept with leaves to hide
  • Those parts, which maids keep unespy’d,
  • Such fleeting pleasures there I took,
  • That with the fancie I awook;
  • And found (Ah me!) this flesh of mine
  • More like a Stock then like a Vine.
  • Dreams

  • Here we are all by day ; by night we’re hurl’d
  • By dreams, each one into a sev’ral world.
  • Delight in Disorder

  • A sweet disorder in the dress
  • Kindles in clothes a wantonness :
  • A lawn about the shoulders thrown
  • Into a fine distraction :
  • An erring lace which here and there
  • Enthrals the crimson stomacher :
  • A cuff neglectful, and thereby
  • Ribbons to flow confusedly :
  • A winning wave deserving note
  • In the tempestuous petticoat :
  • A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
  • I see a wild civility :
  • Do more bewitch me than when art
  • Is too precise in every part.
  • His Farewell to Sack

  • Farewell thou thing, time past so known, so dear
  • To me as blood to life and spirit; near,
  • Nay, thou more near than kindred, friend, man, wife,
  • Male to the female, soul to body; life
  • To quick action, or the warm soft side
  • Of the resigning, yet resisting bride.
  • The kiss of virgins, first fruits of the bed,
  • Soft speech, smooth touch, the lips, the maidenhead :
  • These and a thousand sweets could never be
  • So near or dear as thou wast once to me.
  • O thou, the drink of gods and angels! wine
  • That scatter’st spirit and lust, whose purest shine
  • More radiant than the summer’s sunbeam shows;
  • Each way illustrious, brave, and like to those
  • Comets we see by night, whose shagg’d portents
  • Foretell the coming of some dire events,
  • Or some full flame which with a pride aspires,
  • Throwing about his wild and active fires;
  • ‘Tis thou, above nectar, O divinest soul !
  • Eternal in thyself, that can’st control
  • That which subverts whole nature, grief and care,
  • Vexation of the mind, and damn’d despair.
  • ‘Tis thou alone who, with thy mystic fan,
  • Workst more than wisdom, art, or nature can
  • To rouse the sacred madness and awake
  • The frost-bound blood and spirits, and to make
  • Them frantic with thy raptures flashing through
  • The soul like lightning, and as active too.
  • ‘Tis not Apollo can, or those thrice three
  • Castalian sisters, sing, if wanting thee.
  • Horace, Anacreon, both had lost their fame,
  • Hads’t thou not fill’d them with thy fire and flame.
  • Phoebean splendour! and thou, Thespian spring!
  • Of which sweet swans must drink before they sing
  • Their true pac’d numbers and their holy lays,
  • Which makes them worthy cedar and the bays.
  • But why, why longer do I gaze upon
  • Thee with the eye of admiration?
  • Since I must leave thee, and enforc’d must say
  • To all thy witching beauties, Go away.
  • But if thy whimpering looks do ask me why,
  • Then know that nature bids thee go, not I.
  • ‘Tis her erroneous self has made a brain
  • Uncapable of such a sovereign
  • As is thy powerful self. Prithee not smile,
  • Or smile more inly, lest thy looks beguile
  • My vows denounc’d in zeal, which thus much show thee
  • That I have sworn but by thy looks to know thee.
  • Let others drink thee freely, and desire
  • Thee and their lips espous’d, while I admire
  • And love thee, but not taste thee. Let my muse
  • Fail of thy former helps, and only use
  • Her inadultrate strength: what’s done by me
  • Hereafter shall smell of the lamp, not thee.
  • Corinna’s Going A-Maying

  • Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn
  • Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
  • See how Aurora throws her fair
  • Fresh-quilted colours through the air :
  • Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
  • The dew bespangling herb and tree.
  • Each flower has wept and bow’d toward the east
  • Above an hour since : yet you not dress’d ;
  • Nay ! not so much as out of bed?
  • When all the birds have matins said
  • And sung their thankful hymns, ’tis sin,
  • Nay, profanation to keep in,
  • Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
  • Spring, sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.
  • Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
  • To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
  • And sweet as Flora. Take no care
  • For jewels for your gown or hair :
  • Fear not ; the leaves will strew
  • Gems in abundance upon you :
  • Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
  • Against you come, some orient pearls unwept ;
  • Come and receive them while the light
  • Hangs on the dew-locks of the night :
  • And Titan on the eastern hill
  • Retires himself, or else stands still
  • Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying :
  • Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
  • Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark
  • How each field turns a street, each street a park
  • Made green and trimm’d with trees : see how
  • Devotion gives each house a bough
  • Or branch : each porch, each door ere this
  • An ark, a tabernacle is,
  • Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove ;
  • As if here were those cooler shades of love.
  • Can such delights be in the street
  • And open fields and we not see’t ?
  • Come, we’ll abroad ; and let’s obey
  • The proclamation made for May :
  • And sin no more, as we have done, by staying ;
  • But, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.
  • There’s not a budding boy or girl this day
  • But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
  • A deal of youth, ere this, is come
  • Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
  • Some have despatch’d their cakes and cream
  • Before that we have left to dream :
  • And some have wept, and woo’d, and plighted troth,
  • And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth :
  • Many a green-gown has been given ;
  • Many a kiss, both odd and even :
  • Many a glance too has been sent
  • From out the eye, love’s firmament ;
  • Many a jest told of the keys betraying
  • This night, and locks pick’d, yet we’re not a-Maying.
  • Come, let us go while we are in our prime ;
  • And take the harmless folly of the time.
  • We shall grow old apace, and die
  • Before we know our liberty.
  • Our life is short, and our days run
  • As fast away as does the sun ;
  • And, as a vapour or a drop of rain
  • Once lost, can ne’er be found again,
  • So when or you or I are made
  • A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
  • All love, all liking, all delight
  • Lies drowned with us in endless night.
  • Then while time serves, and we are but decaying,
  • Come, my Corinna, come, let’s go a-Maying.
  • XXIII.

  • As an unperfect actor on the stage,
  • Who with his fear is put beside his part,
  • Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,
  • Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;
  • So I, for fear of trust, forget to say
  • The perfect ceremony of love’s rite,
  • And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,
  • O’ercharged with burthen of mine own love’s might.
  • O! let my looks be then the eloquence
  • And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
  • Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
  • More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.
  • O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:
  • To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit.
  • To the Virgins,
    to Make Much of Time

  • Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
  • Old time is still a-flying :
  • And this same flower that smiles to-day
  • To-morrow will be dying.
  • The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun,
  • The higher he’s a-getting,
  • The sooner will his race be run,
  • And nearer he’s to setting.
  • That age is best which is the first,
  • When youth and blood are warmer ;
  • But being spent, the worse, and worst
  • Times still succeed the former.
  • Then be not coy, but use your time,
  • And while ye may go marry :
  • For having lost but once your prime
  • You may for ever tarry.
  • The Hock Cart,
    or Harvest Home

  • Come, sons of summer, by whose toil
  • We are the lords of wine and oil :
  • By whose tough labours, and rough hands,
  • We rip up first, then reap our lands.
  • Crowned with the ears of corn, now come,
  • And to the pipe sing harvest home.
  • Come forth, my lord, and see the cart
  • Dressed up with all the country art :
  • See here a maukin, there a sheet,
  • As spotless pure as it is sweet :
  • The horses, mares, and frisking fillies,
  • Clad all in linen white as lilies.
  • The harvest swains and wenches bound
  • For joy, to see the hock-cart crowned.
  • About the cart, hear how the rout
  • Of rural younglings raise the shout ;
  • Pressing before, some coming after,
  • Those with a shout, and these with laughter.
  • Some bless the cart, some kiss the sheaves,
  • Some prank them up with oaken leaves :
  • Some cross the fill-horse, some with great
  • Devotion stroke the home-borne wheat :
  • While other rustics, less attent
  • To prayers than to merriment,
  • Run after with their breeches rent.
  • Well, on, brave boys, to your lord’s hearth,
  • Glitt’ring with fire, where, for your mirth,
  • Ye shall see first the large and chief
  • Foundation of your feast, fat beef :
  • With upper stories, mutton, veal
  • And bacon (which makes full the meal),
  • With sev’ral dishes standing by,
  • As here a custard, there a pie,
  • And here all-tempting frumenty.
  • And for to make the merry cheer,
  • If smirking wine be wanting here,
  • There’s that which drowns all care, stout beer ;
  • Which freely drink to your lord’s health,
  • Then to the plough, the commonwealth,
  • Next to your flails, your fans, your fats,
  • Then to the maids with wheaten hats ;
  • To the rough sickle, and crook’d scythe,
  • Drink, frolic, boys, till all be blithe.
  • Feed, and grow fat ; and as ye eat
  • Be mindful that the lab’ring neat,
  • As you, may have their fill of meat.
  • And know, besides, ye must revoke
  • The patient ox unto the yoke,
  • And all go back unto the plough
  • And harrow, though they’re hanged up now.
  • And, you must know, your lord’s word’s true,
  • Feed him ye must, whose food fills you ;
  • And that this pleasure is like rain,
  • Not sent ye for to drown your pain,
  • But for to make it spring again.
  • How Roses Came Red

  • Roses at first were white
  • Till they could not agree,
  • Whether my Sappho’s breast
  • Or they more white should be.
  • But, being vanquish’d quite,
  • A blush their cheeks bespread;
  • Since which, believe the rest,
  • The roses first came red.
  • Upon the Nipples of Julia’s Breast

  • Have ye beheld (with much delight)
  • A red rose peeping through a white ?
  • Or else a cherry, double grac’d,
  • Within a lily centre plac’d ?
  • Or ever mark’d the pretty beam
  • A strawberry shows half-drown’d in cream ?
  • Or seen rich rubies blushing through
  • A pure smooth pearl and orient too ?
  • So like to this, nay all the rest,
  • Is each neat niplet of her breast.
  • Upon Jack and Jill Epigram

  • When Jill complains to Jack for want of meat,
  • Jack kisses Jill, and bids her freely eat.
  • Jill says, “Of what?’ Says Jack, “On that sweet kiss,
  • Which full of nectar and ambrosia is,
  • The food of poets.’ “So I thought,’ says Jill.
  • “That makes them look so lank, so ghost-like still.
  • Let poets feed on air, or what they will;
  • Let me feed full, till that I fart’, says Jill.
  • To Marigolds

  • Give way, and be ye ravish’d by the sun,
  • And hang the head whenas the act is done,
  • Spread as he spreads, wax less as he does wane ;
  • And as he shuts, close up to maids again.
  • His Prayer to Ben Johnson

  • When I a verse shall make,
  • Know I have pray’d thee,
  • For old religion’s sake,
  • Saint Ben, to aid me.
  • Make the way smooth for me,
  • When I, thy Herrick,
  • Honouring thee, on my knee
  • Offer my lyric.
  • Candles I’ll give to thee,
  • And a new altar,
  • And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be
  • Writ in my Psalter.
  • The Bad Season Makes the Poet Sad

  • Dull to myself, and almost dead to these
  • My many fresh and fragrant mistresses ;
  • Lost to all music now, since everything
  • Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.
  • Sick is the land to the heart, and doth endure
  • More dangerous faintings by her desp’rate cure.
  • But if that golden age would come again,
  • And Charles here rule, as he before did reign ;
  • If smooth and unperplexed the seasons were,
  • As when the sweet Maria lived here :
  • I should delight to have my curls half drown’d
  • In Tyrian dews, and head with roses crown’d ;
  • And once more yet, ere I am laid out dead,
  • Knock at a star with my exalted head.
  • The Night Piece to Julia

  • Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
  • The shooting stars attend thee ;
  • And the elves also,
  • Whose little eyes glow
  • Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
  • No Will-o’-th’-Wisp mislight thee,
  • Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee ;
  • But on, on thy way,
  • Not making a stay,
  • Since ghost there’s none to affright thee.
  • Let not the dark thee cumber :
  • What though the moon does slumber ?
  • The stars of the night
  • Will lend thee their light
  • Like tapers clear without number.
  • Then, Julia, let me woo thee,
  • Thus, thus to come unto me ;
  • And when I shall meet
  • Thy silv’ry feet
  • My soul I’ll pour into thee.
  • Upon His Verses

  • What offspring other men have got,
  • The how, where, when, I questio not.
  • These are the children I have left,
  • Adopted some, none got by theft ;
  • But all are touch’d, like lawful plate,
  • And no verse illegitimate.
  • His Return to London

  • From the dull confines of the drooping West
  • To see the day spring from the pregnant East,
  • Ravish’d in spirit I come, nay, more, I fly
  • To thee, bless’d place of my nativity !
  • Thus, thus with hallowed foot I touch the ground,
  • With thousand blessings by thy fortune crown’d.
  • O fruitful Genius ! that bestowest here
  • An everlasting plenty, year by year.
  • O place ! O people ! Manners ! fram’d to please
  • All nations, customs, kindreds, languages !
  • I am a free-born Roman ; suffer, then,
  • That I amongst you live a citizen.
  • London my home is : though by hard fate sent
  • Into a long and irksome banishment ;
  • Yet since call’d back ; henceforward let me be,
  • O native country, repossess’d by thee !
  • For, rather than I’ll to the West return,
  • I’ll beg of thee first here to have mine urn.
  • Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall ;
  • Give thou my sacred relics burial.
  • Upon Julia’s Clothes

  • Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
  • Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows
  • That liquefaction of her clothes.
  • Next, when I cast mine eyes and see
  • That brave vibration each way free ;
  • O how that glittering taketh me !
  • Upon Prue, His Maid

  • In this little urn is laid
  • Prudence Baldwin, once my maid,
  • From whose happy spark here let
  • Spring the purple violet.
  • To His Book’s End

  • To his book’s end this last line he’d have placed:
  • Jocund his muse was, but his life was chaste.
  • Source:

    Herrick, Robert. Hesperides: Poems. Ed. Herbert Percy Horne. London: Walter Scott, 1887. Google Books. Web. 14 Apr. 2016. <https://books.google.com/books?id=ZCI_AAAAYAAJ>

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