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 I will 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.

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 upos
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.

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.

THE WAKE.

Come, Anthea, let us two
Go to feast, as others do:
Tarts and custards, creams and cakes,
Are the junkets still at wakes;

Unto which the tribes resort,

Where the business is the sport:

Morris-dancers thou shalt see,

Marian, too, in pageantry:

And a mimic to devise

Many grinning properties.

Players there will be, and those
Base in action as in clothes;

Yet with strutting they will please
The incurious villages.

Near the dying of the day
There will be a cudgel-play,

Where a coxcomb will be broke,
Ere a good word can be spoke :
But the anger ends all here,
Drench'd in ale, or drown'd in beer.
-Happy rustics! best content
With the cheapest merriment ;

And possess no other fear,

Than to want the Wake next year.

TO ROBIN RED-BREAST.

Laid out for dead, let thy last kindness be
With leaves and moss-work for to cover me;
And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter,
Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister !
For epitaph, in foliage, next write this:
Here, here the tomb of Robin Herrick is!

VOL. IL

TO THE LARK.

Good speed, for I this day
Betimes my matins say,

Because I do

Begin to woo,

Sweet singing Lark,
Be thou the clerk,
And know thy when

To say Amen.

And if I prove
Blest in my love,
Then thou shalt be

High Priest to me,
At my return

To incense burn,

And so to solemnise

Love's and my sacrifice

TO THE ROSE

Song.

Go, happy Rose, and interwove
With other flowers, bind my Love.
Tell her, too, she must not be
Longer flowing, longer free,
That so oft has fetter'd me.

1.

Say, if she's fretful, I have bands
Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands:
Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods at will,

For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and go
And tell her this, but do not so !-
Lest a handsome anger fly

Like a lightning from her eye,
And burn thee up, as well as I!

THE BAG OF THE BEE

About the sweet bag of a bee
Two Cupids fell at odds;

And whose the pretty prize should be
They vow'd to ask the Gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stript them;
And taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipt them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she'd seen them,
She kiss'd and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.

TO THE DUKE OF YORK.

May his pretty Duke-ship grow
Like to a rose of Jericho,

Sweeter far than ever yet

Showers or sunshine could beget;
May the Graces and the Hours
Strew his hopes and him with flowers

And so dress him up with love

As to be the chick of Jove:

May the thrice three Sisters sing Him the sovereign of their spring, And entitle none to be

Prince of Helicon but he ;

May his soft foot, where it treads,
Gardens thence produce and meads,
And those meadows full be set
With the rose and violet;

May his ample name be known
To the last succession,

And his actions high be told

Through the world, but writ in gold

THE LITANY.

In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,
Sick in heart, and sick in head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drown'd in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees
No one hope, but of his fees,
And his skill runs on the lees,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When his potion and his pill,
Has, or none, or little skill,
Meet for nothing but to kill,
Sweet Spirit, comfort me!