There ran a creek up, intricate and blind, 155 As if the waters hid them from the wind; Which never wash'd but at a higher tide The frizzled coats which do the mountains hide; Where never gale was longer known to stay 159 Than from the smooth wave it had swept away The new divorced leaves, that from each side Left the thick boughs to dance out with the tide. At further end the creek a stately wood Gave a kind shadow to the brackish flood Made up of trees, not less kenn'd by each skiff Than that sky-scaling Peak of Teneriffe, Upon whose tops the hernshaw bred her young, And hoary moss upon their branches hung; Whose rugged rinds sufficient were to show, Without their height, what time they 'gan to grow; And if dry eld by wrinkled skin appears, None could allot them less than Nestor's years. As under their command the thronged creek Ran lessen'd up. Here did the shepherd seek Where he his little boat might safely hide, Till it was fraught with what the world beside Could not outvalue; nor give equal weight Though in the time when Greece was at her height. The ruddy horses of the rosy Morn Out of the Eastern gates had newly borne Their blushing mistress in her golden chair, Spreading new light throughout our hemisphere, When fairest Cælia with a lovelier crew Of damsels than brave Latmus ever knew Came forth to meet the youngsters, who had here Cut down an oak that long withouten peer Bore his round head imperiously above His other mates there, consecrate to Jove. The wished time drew on: and Cælia now, That had the fame for her white arched brow, While all her lovely fellows busied were In picking off the gems from Tellus' hair, Made tow'rds the creek, where Philocel, unspied Of maid or shepherd that their May-games plied, Receiv'd his wish'd-for Cælia, and begun To steer his boat contrary to the sun, Who could have wish'd another in his place To guide the car of light, or that his race Were to have end (so he might bless his hap) In Cælia's bosom, not in Thetis' lap. The boat oft danc'd for joy of what it held: The hoist-up sail not quick but gently swell'd, And often shook, as fearing what might fall, Ere she deliver'd what she went withal.
Guided with reins of gold and silver twist The spotless birds about them as they list: Which would have sung a song (ere they were gone)
Had unkind Nature given them more than one; Or in bestowing that had not done wrong, 215 And made their sweet lives forfeit one sad song.
May, be thou never graced with birds that sing, Nor Flora's pride!
In thee all flowers and roses spring, Mine only died.
ON THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF PEMBROKE
Underneath this sable herse Lies the subject of all verse:
Sidney's sister, Pembroke's mother: Death, ere thou hast slain another Fair and learn'd and good as she, Time shall throw a dart at thee.
ROBERT HERRICK (1591-1674)
UPON THE LOSS OF HIS MISTRESSES
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.
Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones; come and buy; If so be you ask me where They do grow? I answer, there, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.
Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
And sweet as Flora. Take no care For jewels for your gown or hair: Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Against you come, some orient pearls unwept; Come and receive them while the light Hangs on the dew-locks of the night: And Titan on the eastern hill Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.
Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark 29 How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green and trimm'd with trees; see how Devotion gives each house a bough
Or branch: each porch, each door ere this An ark, a tabernacle is,
Made up of white-thorn, neatly interwove; As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields and we not see't? Come, we'll abroad; and let's obey
The proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying; But, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying.
There's not a budding boy or girl this day But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept, and woo'd, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance too has been sent From out the eye, love's firmament;
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick'd, yet we're not a-Maying.
Come, let us go while we are in our prime; And take the harmless folly of the time.
We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun; And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost, can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight
A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE
Lord, Thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell,
A little house, whose humble roof Is weather-proof,
Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry;
Where Thou, my chamber for to ward, Hast set a guard
Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Me while I sleep.
Low is my porch, as is my fate,
Both void of state;
And yet the threshold of my door Is worn by th' poor,
Who thither come and freely get Good words or meat.
Like as my parlor so my hall And kitchen's small;
A little buttery, and therein A little bin,
Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipped, unflead;
Some little sticks of thorn or briar Make me a fire,
Close by whose living coal I sit, And glow like it.
Lord, I confess too, when I dine, The pulse is Thine,
And all those other bits that be There plac'd by Thee;
The worts, the purslain, and the mess Of water-cress,
Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent; And my content
Makes those, and my beloved beet,
To be more sweet.
'Tis Thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth,
And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink,
Spiced to the brink.
Lord, 'tis Thy plenty-dropping hand That soils my land,
And giv'st me, for my bushel sown, Twice ten for one;
Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Her egg each day;
Besides my healthful ewes to bear
Me twins each year;
The while the conduits of my kine
Run cream, for wine.
All these, and better Thou dost send
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