Robert Herrick

A Collective Work

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>

License

Icon for the Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International License