Part 17

I have lost, and lately, these Many dainty mistresses:-- Stately Julia, prime of all; Sapho next, a principal: Smooth Anthea, for a skin White, and heaven-like crystalline: Sweet Electra, and the choice Myrha, for the lute and voice. Next, Corinna, for her wit, And the graceful use of it; With Perilla:--All are gone; Only Herrick's left alone, For to number sorrow by Their departures hence, and die.

132. THE WOUNDED HEART

Come, bring your sampler, and with art Draw in't a wounded heart, And dropping here and there; Not that I think that any dart Can make your's bleed a tear, Or pierce it any where; Yet do it to this end,--that I May by This secret see, Though you can make That heart to bleed, your's ne'er will ache For me.

133. HIS MISTRESS TO HIM AT HIS FAREWELL

You may vow I'll not forget To pay the debt Which to thy memory stands as due As faith can seal it you. --Take then tribute of my tears; So long as I have fears To prompt me, I shall ever Languish and look, but thy return see never. Oh then to lessen my despair, Print thy lips into the air, So by this Means, I may kiss thy kiss, Whenas some kind Wind Shall hither waft it:--And, in lieu, My lips shall send a thousand back to you.

134. CRUTCHES

Thou see'st me, Lucia, this year droop; Three zodiacs fill'd more, I shall stoop; Let crutches then provided be To shore up my debility: Then, while thou laugh'st, I'll sighing cry, A ruin underpropt am I: Don will I then my beadsman's gown; And when so feeble I am grown As my weak shoulders cannot bear The burden of a grasshopper; Yet with the bench of aged sires, When I and they keep termly fires, With my weak voice I'll sing, or say Some odes I made of Lucia;-- Then will I heave my wither'd hand To Jove the mighty, for to stand Thy faithful friend, and to pour down Upon thee many a benison.

135. TO ANTHEA

Anthea, I am going hence With some small stock of innocence; But yet those blessed gates I see Withstanding entrance unto me; To pray for me do thou begin;-- The porter then will let me in.

136. TO ANTHEA

Now is the time when all the lights wax dim; And thou, Anthea, must withdraw from him Who was thy servant: Dearest, bury me Under that holy-oak, or gospel-tree; Where, though thou see'st not, thou may'st think upon Me, when thou yearly go'st procession; Or, for mine honour, lay me in that tomb In which thy sacred reliques shall have room; For my embalming, Sweetest, there will be No spices wanting, when I'm laid by thee.

137. TO HIS LOVELY MISTRESSES

One night i'th' year, my dearest Beauties, come, And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb; When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise, And there to lick th' effused sacrifice, Though paleness be the livery that I wear, Look ye not wan or colourless for fear. Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once show The least grim look, or cast a frown on you; Nor shall the tapers, when I'm there, burn blue. This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,-- Cast on my girls a glance, and loving eye; Or fold mine arms, and sigh, because I've lost The world so soon, and in it, you the most: --Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall, Though then I smile, and speak no words at all.

138. TO PERILLA

Ah, my Perilla! dost thou grieve to see Me, day by day, to steal away from thee? Age calls me hence, and my gray hairs bid come, And haste away to mine eternal home; 'Twill not be long, Perilla, after this, That I must give thee the supremest kiss:-- Dead when I am, first cast in salt, and bring Part of the cream from that religious spring, With which, Perilla, wash my hands and feet; That done, then wind me in that very sheet Which wrapt thy smooth limbs, when thou didst implore The Gods' protection, but the night before; Follow me weeping to my turf, and there Let fall a primrose, and with it a tear: Then lastly, let some weekly strewings be Devoted to the memory of me; Then shall my ghost not walk about, but keep Still in the cool and silent shades of sleep.

139. A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS

You are a Tulip seen to-day, But, Dearest, of so short a stay, That where you grew, scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower; Yet one rude wind, or ruffling shower, Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling Rose i'th' bud, Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread fair-set Vine, And can with tendrils love entwine; Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.

You are like Balm, enclosed well In amber, or some crystal shell; Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty Violet; Yet wither'd, ere you can be set Within the virgins coronet.

You are the Queen all flowers among; But die you must, fair maid, ere long, As he, the maker of this song.

140. TO THE VIRGINS, TO MAKE MUCH OF TIME

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may: Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun, The higher he's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times, still succeed the former.

--Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry; For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.