LXXXII. HIS PRAYER TO BEN JONSON. WHEN I a verse shall make, WHEN 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. LXXXIII. THE NIGHT-PIECE, TO JULIA. H ER eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow, Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee. No will-o'-the-wisp mislight thee; Nor snake or slow-worm bite thee: But on, on thy way Not making a stay, Since ghost there's none to affright thee. Let not the dark thee cumber; What though the moon does slumber? Will lend thee their light, Then Julia let me woo thee, Thy silvery feet My soul I'll pour into thee. LXXXIV. A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY. A LITTLE saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine, As my small cruse best fits my little wine. A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil : As my small jar best fits my little oil. A little bin best fits a little bread, A little garland fits a little head : A little hearth best fits a little fire, As my small bell best fits my little spire. A little stream best fits a little boat; A little lead best fits a little float; A little meat best fits a little belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little pipkin fits this little jelly. LXXXV. AN ODE FOR BEN JONSON. A H Ben! Say how or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun, As made us nobly wild, not mad? My Ben! Or come agen, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus. But teach us yet Wisely to husband it; Lest we that talent spend ; And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit the world should have no more. LXXXVI. A THANKSGIVING TO GOD FOR HIS HOUSE. LORD, thou hast given me a cell Wherein to dwell; And 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, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Low is my porch, as is my fate, Both void of state; And yet the threshold of my door Like as my parlour, so my hall, A little buttery, and therein A little bin, Which keeps my little loaf of bread Unchipped, unflead. Some brittle sticks of thorn or brier 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 placed by thee. The worts, the purslain, and the mess |