Part 3

My Muse in meads has spent her many hours Sitting, and sorting several sorts of flowers, To make for others garlands; and to set On many a head here, many a coronet. But amongst all encircled here, not one Gave her a day of coronation; Till you, sweet mistress, came and interwove A laurel for her, ever young as Love. You first of all crown'd her; she must, of due, Render for that, a crown of life to you.

8. TO HIS VERSES

What will ye, my poor orphans, do, When I must leave the world and you; Who'll give ye then a sheltering shed, Or credit ye, when I am dead? Who'll let ye by their fire sit, Although ye have a stock of wit, Already coin'd to pay for it? --I cannot tell: unless there be Some race of old humanity Left, of the large heart and long hand, Alive, as noble Westmorland; Or gallant Newark; which brave two May fost'ring fathers be to you. If not, expect to be no less Ill used, than babes left fatherless.

9. NOT EVERY DAY FIT FOR VERSE

'Tis not ev'ry day that I Fitted am to prophesy: No, but when the spirit fills The fantastic pannicles, Full of fire, then I write As the Godhead doth indite. Thus enraged, my lines are hurl'd, Like the Sibyl's, through the world: Look how next the holy fire Either slakes, or doth retire; So the fancy cools:--till when That brave spirit comes again.

10. 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.

11. 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, Than to live not perfected.

12. TO HIS BOOK

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!

13. HIS POETRY HIS PILLAR

Only a little more I have to write: Then I'll give o'er, And bid the world good-night.

'Tis but a flying minute, That I must stay, Or linger in it: And then I must away.

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 Pyramides.

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'll leave thee to thy rest.

15. UPON HIMSELF

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.

IDYLLICA

16. THE COUNTRY LIFE:

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