Look how next the holy fire
Either slakes, or doth retire;
So the fancy cools :-till when
That brave spirit comes again.

* IO *

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.

* II *

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,
Then to live not perfected.

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!

O Time, that cut'st down all,
And scarce leav'st here

Memorial

Of any men that were;

--How many lie forgot
In vaults beneath,

And piece-meal rot
Without a fame in death?

Behold this living stone
I rear for me,

Ne'er to be thrown

Down, envious Time, by thee.

Pillars let some set up

If so they please;
Here is my hope,
And my Pyramidés.

14*

TO HIS BOOK

IF hap it must, that I must see thee lie

Absyrtus-like, all torn confusedly;

With solemn tears, and with much grief of heart, I'll recollect thee, weeping, part by part;

And having wash'd thee, close thee in a chest

With spice; that done, I'li leave thee to thy rest.

*15*

UPON HIMSELF

sh. Sonnet #55

THOU shalt not all die; for while Love's fire shines
Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines;

And learn'd musicians shall, to honour Herrick's
Fame, and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.

To his book's end this last line he'd have placed :-
Jocund his Muse was, but his Life was chaste.

* 16 *

THE COUNTRY LIFE:

TO THE HONOURED MR ENDYMION PORTER, GROOM OF
THE BED-CHAMBER TO HIS MAJESTY

SWEET Country life, to such unknown,
Whose lives are others', not their own!
But serving courts and cities, be
Less happy, less enjoying thee.
Thou never plough'st the ocean's foam
To seek and bring rough pepper home :

Nor to the Eastern Ind dost rove

To bring from thence the scorchéd clove :
Nor, with the loss of thy loved rest,
Bring'st home the ingot from the West.
No, thy ambition's master-piece

Flies no thought higher than a fleece :
Or how to pay thy hinds, and clear
All scores and so to end the year :
But walk'st about thine own dear bounds,
Not envying others' larger grounds :
For well thou know'st, 'tis not th' extent
Of land makes life, but sweet content.
When now the cock (the ploughman's horn)
Calls forth the lily-wristed morn;
Then to thy corn-fields thou dost go,
Which though well soil'd, yet thou dost know
That the best compost for the lands

Is the wise master's feet, and hands.
There at the plough thou find'st thy team,
With a hind whistling there to them :
And cheer'st them up, by singing how
The kingdom's portion is the plough.
This done, then to th' enamell'd meads
Thou go'st; and as thy foot there treads,
Thou seest a present God-like power
Imprinted in each herb and flower :
And smell'st the breath of great-eyed kine,
Sweet as the blossoms of the vine.

Here thou behold'st thy large sleek neat
Unto the dew-laps up in meat :

And, as thou look'st, the wanton steer,
The heifer, cow, and ox draw near,

To make a pleasing pastime there.