Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 43

264. To Dianeme

SWEET, be not proud of those two eyes Which starlike sparkle in their skies; Nor be you proud that you can see All hearts your captives, yours yet free; Be you not proud of that rich hair Which wantons with the love-sick air; Whenas that ruby which you wear, Sunk from the tip of your soft ear, Will last to be a precious stone When all your world of beauty's gone.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

265. To Oenone

WHAT conscience, say, is it in thee, When I a heart had one, To take away that heart from me, And to retain thy own?

For shame or pity now incline To play a loving part; Either to send me kindly thine, Or give me back my heart.

Covet not both; but if thou dost Resolve to part with neither, Why, yet to show that thou art just, Take me and mine together!

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

266. To Anthea, who may command him Anything

BID me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee.

A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee.

Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree: Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee.

Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see: And, having none, yet will I keep A heart to weep for thee.

Bid me despair, and I'll despair Under that cypress-tree: Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death to die for thee.

Thou art my life, my love my heart, The very eyes of me: And hast command of every part To live and die for thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

267. To the Willow-tree

THOU art to all lost love the best, The only true plant found, Wherewith young men and maids distrest, And left of love, are crown'd.

When once the lover's rose is dead, Or laid aside forlorn: Then willow-garlands 'bout the head Bedew'd with tears are worn.

When with neglect, the lovers' bane, Poor maids rewarded be For their love lost, their only gain Is but a wreath from thee.

And underneath thy cooling shade, When weary of the light, The love-spent youth and love-sick maid Come to weep out the night.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

268. The Mad Maid's Song

GOOD-MORROW to the day so fair, Good-morning, sir, to you; Good-morrow to mine own torn hair Bedabbled with the dew.

Good-morning to this primrose too, Good-morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid.

Ah! woe is me, woe, woe is me!

Alack and well-a-day!

For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave, I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave I' th' bed of strawberries.

I'll seek him there; I know ere this The cold, cold earth doth shake him; But I will go, or send a kiss By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead, He knows well who do love him, And who with green turfs rear his head, And who do rudely move him.

He 's soft and tender (pray take heed); With bands of cowslips bind him, And bring him home--but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him!

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

269. Comfort to a Youth that had lost his Love

WHAT needs complaints, When she a place Has with the race Of saints?

In endless mirth She thinks not on What 's said or done In Earth.

She sees no tears, Or any tone Of thy deep groan She hears:

Nor does she mind Or think on 't now That ever thou Wast kind;

But changed above, She likes not there, As she did here, Thy love.

Forbear therefore, And lull asleep Thy woes, and weep No more.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

270. To Meadows

YE have been fresh and green, Ye have been fill'd with flowers, And ye the walks have been Where maids have spent their hours.

You have beheld how they With wicker arks did come To kiss and bear away The richer cowslips home.

You've heard them sweetly sing, And seen them in a round: Each virgin like a spring, With honeysuckles crown'd.

But now we see none here Whose silv'ry feet did tread And with dishevell'd hair Adorn'd this smoother mead.

Like unthrifts, having spent Your stock and needy grown, You're left here to lament Your poor estates, alone.