PAGE NO. 127 161 For ever, while it warbled, Full soon your joys are o'er! And will return no more." -But it is difficult here not to suspect that the accomplished translator was conscious of Herrick. Imitates Martial, I. 16. 132 180 Translated from a 'Scolion' attributed to Simonides. 137 189 140 195 L. 3, lawny continent: apron of lawn. L. 3, compare L'Allegro: Zephyr, with Aurora playing,' &c. This poem, which was justly a favourite with Herrick (see p. 77, 1. 23), shows his fine feeling for gradation and the effect of contrast in colour; and at the same time is a singularly skilful piece of writing:-altogether, a work worthy of Turner or Paul Veronese. L. 2, strokes: caresses. L. 23, scene: veil. L. 9, pride: beauty. L. 1: One version of the Gyges story assigns to him a magical ring, by which he made himself invisible during his amour with the wife of King Candaules. L. 3, pression: impression. 157 219 L. 8, carriages: turns. 163 230 L. 22, unflead: probably good, undamaged by mould (Grosart), Is it not unchipped, or unpared; flea standing for flay? 164 166 233 168 236 L. 3, worts: cabbage: purslain: salad. L. 15, givest: under. stand, Thou. L. 4, mell: presumably, honey. L. 5, of amber: goldencoloured. L. 6, axle-tree: probably, funeral car. L. 7, state: magnificence; perhaps with allusion to canopies of worked Persian stuff. 237 L. 3, counter-changed tabbies: variously coloured clouds; tabby was a wavy-figured silk. 172 244 L. 19, cauls: head-dresses. 173 174 175 176 179 L. 22, male-incense: some powerfully odorous species? 245 L. 24, deal: as in cards. L. 3, maundy: gifts like those made on 'Maundy Thursday.' overflow. L. 10, jet it: strut about (Grosart). Nothing in this collection is more characteristic of Herrick and of his period than the Dirge of Dorcas. Its quaint grace and picturesque geniality are perfect in their way: a way very difficult, if not very elevated. 252 L. 2, protonotary: chief recording clerk. L. 10, wind: turn round, or wind into? This poem and the next are, each in its way, singularly characteristic of Herrick. Confessions so truthful and natural have been rarely made. PAGE NO. 181 254 L. 9, cruels: worsteds. This lovely and pathetic little piece has 182 256 L. 3, paddocks: frogs. The tenderness of these lines re- 183 257 L. 13, artless: unskilful. Another piece remarkable for natural 187 261 L. 11, candour: whiteness. 195 INDEX OF FIRST LINES About the sweet bag of a bee. A crystal vial Cupid brought . A funeral stone A Gyges ring they bear about them still Ah, cruel Love! must I endure Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see All has been plunder'd from me but my wit Anthea laugh'd, and, fearing lest excess As is your name, so is your comely face As Julia once a-slumb'ring lay As shews the air when with a rainbow graced Ask me why I send you here A sweet disorder in the dress Bad are the times. Sil. And worse than they are we Begin to charm, and as thou strok'st mine ears Bell-man of night, if I about shall go . Be not proud, but now incline Biancha, let Bid me to live, and I will live Born I was to be old By those soft tods of wool. Can I not sin, but thou wilt be Charm me asleep, and melt me so Charms, that call down the moon from out her sphere Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry Clear are her eyes . 139 . 10g Come then, and like two doves with silvery wings Command the roof, great Genius, and from thence Dew sate on Julia's hair Down with the rosemary and bays. Dread not the shackles; on with thine intent Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may Every time seems short to be Fair Daffadils, we weep to see Fair pledges of a fruitful tree First, April, she with mellow showers First offer incense; then, thy field and meads Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee: For all our works a recompence is sure For brave comportment, wit without offence From noise of scare-fires rest ye free From the dull confines of the drooping west Get up, get up for shame! the blooming morn Give me a man that is not dull Give me one kiss. Give way, give way, ye gates, and win Good day, Mirtillo. Mirt. And to you no less Good morrow to the day so fair Good things, that come of course, far less do please Go, happy Rose, and interwove. Go, pretty child, and bear this flower Go thou forth, my book, though late Great cities seldom rest; if there be none Great men by small means oft are overthrown. Happily I had a sight Health is the first good lent to men Here, a little child, I stand Here a pretty baby lies Here a solemn fast we keep Here, here I live with what my board. Here she lies, a pretty bud Here she lies, in bed of spice Here we are all by day; by night we're hurl'd Here we securely live, and eat Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee. Her pretty feet Holy-rood, come forth and shield Honour to you who sit How Love came in, I do not know . 104 14 29 How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read I bring ye love. Ques. What will love do? I could but see thee yesterday I dare not ask a kiss I dreamt the Roses one time went If after rude and boisterous seas If hap it must, that I must see thee lie If little labour, little are our gains If ye will with Mab find grace. I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear I have lost, and lately, these I held Love's head while it did ache I'll write no more of love, but now repent In all thy need, be thou possest In numbers, and but these few. In man, ambition is the common'st thing . In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part In sober mornings, do not thou rehearse. In the hour of my distress In this world, the Isle of Dreams I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers Is this a life, to break thy sleep I will confess. Julia, if I chance to die Kindle the Christmas brand, and then Knew'st thou one month would take thy life away Let others to the printing-press run fast. Life is the body's light; which, once declining Lost to the world; lost to myself; alone Love is a circle, that doth restless move. Love, like a gipsy, lately came Love's of itself too sweet; the best of all Make haste away, and let one be. Man is a watch, wound up at first, but never Man is composed here of a twofold part. My Muse in meads has spent her many hours Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep |