Robert Herrick

All things decay with time: the forest sees The growth and downfall of her aged trees; That timber tall, which threescore lusters stood The proud dictator of the state-like wood,— I mean (the sovereign of all plants) the oak— Droops, dies, …

So smooth, so sweet, so silv'ry is thy voice, As, could they hear, the damn'd would make no noise, But listen to thee, walking in thy chamber, Melting melodious words to lutes of amber.

Fight thou with shafts of silver and o'ercome, When no force else can get the masterdom.

Here we are all by day; by night we're hurl'd By dreams, each one into a sev'ral world.

But, ah! if empty dreams so please, Love give me more such nights as these.

For my embalming, sweetest, there will be No spices wanting when I'm laid by thee.

Now is the time, when all the lights wax dim; And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him Who was thy servant.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle,

When one is past, another care we have: Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses.

Small griefs find tongues: full casks are ever found To give (if any, yet) but little sound. Deep waters noiseless are; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below.

Love is a circle that doth restless move In the same sweet eternity of love.

Is there no way to beget In my limbs their former heat? Æson had, as poets feign, Baths that made him young again: Find that medicine, if you can, For your dry decrepit man

To get thine ends, lay bashfulness aside; Who fears to ask doth teach to be deny'd.

When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine, Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.

In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse.

To read my book the virgin shy May blush while Brutus standeth by, But when he's gone, read through what's writ, And never stain a cheek for it.

I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

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 …