Upon Deb.

If felt and heard, unseen, thou dost me please;
If seen, thou lik'st me, Deb, in none of these.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

His Return To London

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Skoles. Epig.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Good And Bad.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Pansies

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Upon The Detracter

I ask'd thee oft what poets thou hast read,
And lik'st the best?Still thou repli'st, The dead.
I shall, ere long, with green turfs cover'd be;
Then sure thou'lt like, or thou wilt envy, me.

Robert Herrick

To Perenna

When I thy parts run o'er, I can't espy
In any one, the least indecency;
But every line and limb diffused thence
A fair and unfamiliar excellence;
So that the more I look, the more I prove
There's still more cause why I the more should love.

Robert Herrick

Upon Pearch. Epig.

Thou writes in prose how sweet all virgins be;
But there's not one, doth praise the smell of thee.

Robert Herrick

To Dianeme

I could but see thee yesterday
Stung by a fretful bee;
And I the javelin suck'd away,
And heal'd the wound in thee.

A thousand thorns, and briars, and stings
I have in my poor breast;
Yet ne'er can see that salve which brings
My passions any rest.

As Love shall help me, I admire
How thou canst sit and smile
To see me bleed, and not desire
To staunch the blood the while.

If thou, composed of gentle mould,
Art so unkind to me;
What dismal stories will be told
Of those that cruel be!

Robert Herrick

Upon A Comely And Curious Maid.

If men can say that beauty dies,
Marbles will swear that here it lies.
If, reader, then thou canst forbear
In public loss to shed a tear,
The dew of grief upon this stone
Will tell thee pity thou hast none.

Robert Herrick

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.

Robert Herrick