And Fading-time do's show,
That Ye must quickly wither.
Your Sifter-hoods may stay,
And fmile here for your
But dye ye must away:
Even as the meaneft Flower.

T

houre;

ye;

Come, Virgins, then, and see
Your frailties; and bemone
For loft like these, 'twill be,
As Time had never known ye.

A Caution.

Hat Love last long; let it thy first care be

To find a Wife, that is most fit for Thee. Be She too wealthy, or too poore; be fure, Love in extreames, can never long endure.

To the Water Nymphs, drinking at the
Fountain.

REach, with your whiter hands, to me,

Some Christall of the Spring;

And I, about the Cup shall see
Fresh Lillies flourishing.

but this;

Or else sweet Nimphs do you
To'th' Glaffe your lips encline
And I fhall fee by that one kiffe,
The Water turn'd to Wine.

To his Honoured Kinfman, Sir Richard Stone.

O this white Temple of my Heroes, here Beset with stately Figures, every where, Of such rare Saint-ships, who did here consume Their lives in sweets, and left in death perfume. Come, thou Brave man! And bring with Thee a Unto thine own Edification.

[Stone High are These Statues here, befides no leffe Strong then the Heavens for everlastingnesse : Where build aloft; and being fixt by These, Set up Thine own eternall Images.

A

Upon a Flie.

Golden Flie one fhew'd to me,

Clos'd in a Box of Yvorie :

Where both feem'd proud; the Flie to have

His buriall in an yvorie grave:

The yvorie tooke State to hold

A Corps as bright as burnisht gold.
One Fate had both; both equall Grace;
The Buried, and the Burying-place.
Not Virgils Gnat, to whom the Spring
All Flowers fent to'is burying.
Not Marshals Bee, which in a Bead
Of Amber quick was buried.

Nor that fine Worme that do's interre

Her felfe i'th' filken Sepulchre.

Nor my rare Phil,* that lately was
With Lillies Tomb'd up in a Glaffe;
More honour had, then this fame Flie;
Dead, and clos'd up in Yvorie.

Upon Jack and Jill.

Epig.

Hen Jill complaines to Jack for want of

W Hen

meate ;

Jack kiffes Fill, and bids her freely eate:

Fill fayes, of what? fayes Jack, on that sweet kisse,
Which full of Nectar and Ambrofia is,
The food of Poets; fo I thought fayes Jill,

That makes them looke fo lanke, so Ghost-like
Let Poets feed on aire, or what they will; [ftill.
Let me feed full, till that I fart, fayes Jill.

To Julia.

Ulia, when thy Herrick dies,

JUlia, when

Close thou up thy Poets eyes:

And his laft breath, let it be
Taken in by none but Thee.

To Miftreffe Dorothy Parfons.

I do write of thee no more:

F thou afke me, Deare, wherefore

I

I must answer, Sweet, thy part
Leffe is here, then in my heart.

* Sparrow.

P4

Upon Parrat.

Arrat protefts 'tis he, and only he Can teach a man the Art of memory : Believe him not; for he forgot it quite,

[night.

Being drunke, who 'twas that Can'd his Ribs laft

How he would drinke his Wine.

Fill me my Wine in Christall; thus, and thus

I fee't in's puris naturalibus :

Unmixt. I love to have it smirke and shine, 'Tis fin I know, 'tis fin to throtle Wine.

What Mad-man's he, that when it sparkles fo, Will coole his flames, or quench his fires with snow?

How Marigolds came yellow.

Ealous Girles these fometimes were,

JE

While they liv'd, or lasted here:
Turn'd to Flowers, ftill they be
Yellow, markt for Jealousie.

The broken Christall.

Te

Lucia went,

Bearing a Chriftall continent:

But making hafte, it came to paffe,
She brake in two the purer Glaffe,
Then smil'd, and sweetly chid her speed;
So with a blush, befhrew'd the deed.

G

Precepts.

Ood Precepts we must firmly hold,
By daily Learning we wax old.

To the right Honourable Edward Earle of Dorfet.

write to

F I dare write to You, my Lord, who are,
Of your own felfe, a Publick Theater.

And fitting, fee the wiles, wayes, walks of wit,
And give a righteous judgement upon it.
What need I care, though some dislike me sho'd,
If Dorfet fay, what Herrick writes, is good?
We know y'are learn'd i'th'Muses, and no lesse
In our State-fanctions, deep, or bottomleffe.
Whose smile can make a Poet; and your glance
Dash all bad Poems out of countenance.
So, that an Author needs no other Bayes
For Coronation, then Your onely Praise.
And no one mischief greater then your frown,
To null his Numbers, and to blast his Crowne.
Few live the life immortall. He enfures
His Fame's long life, who ftrives to fet up Yours.

T

Upon Himself.

H'art hence removing, like a Shepherds Tent,
And walk thou must the way that others went: