Lyrical Poems [8]
Or to a girl, that keeps the neat, With breath more sweet than violet. There, there, perhaps such lines as these May take the simple villages; But for the court, the country wit Is despicable unto it. Stay then at home, and do not go Or fly abroad to seek for woe; Contempts in courts and cities dwell No critic haunts the poor man's cell, Where thou mayst hear thine own lines read By no one tongue there censured. That man's unwise will search for ill, And may prevent it, sitting still.
*3*
WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ
In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse; But when that men have both well drunk, and fed, Let my enchantments then be sung or read. When laurel spirts i' th' fire, and when the hearth Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth; When up the Thyrse is raised, and when the sound Of sacred orgies, flies A round, A round; When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine, Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.
*4*
TO HIS BOOK
Make haste away, and let one be A friendly patron unto thee; Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie Torn for the use of pastery; Or see thy injured leaves serve well To make loose gowns for mackarel; Or see the grocers, in a trice, Make hoods of thee to serve out spice.
*5*
TO HIS BOOK
Take mine advice, and go not near Those faces, sour as vinegar; For these, and nobler numbers, can Ne'er please the supercilious man.
*6*
TO HIS BOOK
Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe; But by the Muses swear, all here is good, If but well read, or ill read, understood.
*7*
TO MISTRESS KATHARINE BRADSHAW, THE LOVELY, THAT CROWNED HIM WITH LAUREL
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers, To make for others garlands; and to set On many a head here, many a coronet. But amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation; Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as Love. You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due, Render for that, a crown of life to you.
*8*
TO HIS VERSES
What will ye, my poor orphans, do, When I must leave the world and you; Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed, Or credit ye, when I am dead? Who'll let ye by their fire sit, Although ye have a stock of wit, Already coin'd to pay for it? --I cannot tell: unless there be Some race of old humanity Left, of the large heart and long hand, Alive, as noble Westmorland; Or gallant Newark; which brave two May fost'ring fathers be to you. If not, expect to be no less Ill used, than babes left fatherless.
*9*
NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE
'Tis not ev'ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy: No, but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles, Full of fire, then I write As the Godhead doth indite. Thus enraged, my lines are hurl'd, Like the Sibyl's, through the world: Look how next the holy fire Either slakes, or doth retire; So the fancy cools:--till when That brave spirit comes again.
*10*
HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON
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.
*11*
HIS REQUEST TO JULIA
Julia, if I chance to die Ere I print my poetry, I most humbly thee desire To commit it to the fire: Better 'twere my book were dead, Than to live not perfected.
*12*
TO HIS BOOK
Go thou forth, my book, though late, Yet be timely fortunate. It may chance good luck may send Thee a kinsman or a friend, That may harbour thee, when I With my fates neglected lie. If thou know'st not where to dwell, See, the fire's by.--Farewell!
*13*
HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR
Only a little more I have to write: Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night.
'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away.
O Time,
*3*
WHEN HE WOULD HAVE HIS VERSES READ
In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse; But when that men have both well drunk, and fed, Let my enchantments then be sung or read. When laurel spirts i' th' fire, and when the hearth Smiles to itself, and gilds the roof with mirth; When up the Thyrse is raised, and when the sound Of sacred orgies, flies A round, A round; When the rose reigns, and locks with ointments shine, Let rigid Cato read these lines of mine.
*4*
TO HIS BOOK
Make haste away, and let one be A friendly patron unto thee; Lest, rapt from hence, I see thee lie Torn for the use of pastery; Or see thy injured leaves serve well To make loose gowns for mackarel; Or see the grocers, in a trice, Make hoods of thee to serve out spice.
*5*
TO HIS BOOK
Take mine advice, and go not near Those faces, sour as vinegar; For these, and nobler numbers, can Ne'er please the supercilious man.
*6*
TO HIS BOOK
Be bold, my Book, nor be abash'd, or fear The cutting thumb-nail, or the brow severe; But by the Muses swear, all here is good, If but well read, or ill read, understood.
*7*
TO MISTRESS KATHARINE BRADSHAW, THE LOVELY, THAT CROWNED HIM WITH LAUREL
My Muse in meads has spent her many hours Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers, To make for others garlands; and to set On many a head here, many a coronet. But amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation; Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as Love. You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due, Render for that, a crown of life to you.
*8*
TO HIS VERSES
What will ye, my poor orphans, do, When I must leave the world and you; Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed, Or credit ye, when I am dead? Who'll let ye by their fire sit, Although ye have a stock of wit, Already coin'd to pay for it? --I cannot tell: unless there be Some race of old humanity Left, of the large heart and long hand, Alive, as noble Westmorland; Or gallant Newark; which brave two May fost'ring fathers be to you. If not, expect to be no less Ill used, than babes left fatherless.
*9*
NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE
'Tis not ev'ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy: No, but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles, Full of fire, then I write As the Godhead doth indite. Thus enraged, my lines are hurl'd, Like the Sibyl's, through the world: Look how next the holy fire Either slakes, or doth retire; So the fancy cools:--till when That brave spirit comes again.
*10*
HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON
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.
*11*
HIS REQUEST TO JULIA
Julia, if I chance to die Ere I print my poetry, I most humbly thee desire To commit it to the fire: Better 'twere my book were dead, Than to live not perfected.
*12*
TO HIS BOOK
Go thou forth, my book, though late, Yet be timely fortunate. It may chance good luck may send Thee a kinsman or a friend, That may harbour thee, when I With my fates neglected lie. If thou know'st not where to dwell, See, the fire's by.--Farewell!
*13*
HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR
Only a little more I have to write: Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night.
'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away.
O Time,