Robert Herrick

Stand with thy graces forth, brave man, and rise
High with thine own auspicious destinies:
Nor leave the search, and proof, till thou canst find
These, or those ends, to which thou wast design'd.
Thy lucky genius and thy guiding star
Have made thee prosperous in thy ways thus far:
Nor will they leave thee till they both have shown
Thee to the world a prime and public one.
Then, when thou see'st thine age all turn'd to gold,
Remember what thy Herrick thee foretold,
When at the holy threshold of thine house
He boded good luck to thy self and spouse.
Lastly, be mindful, when thou art grown great,
That towers high rear'd dread most the lightning's threat:
Whenas the humble cottages not fear
The cleaving bolt of Jove the thunderer.

Nor is my number full till I inscribe
Thee, sprightly Soame, one of my righteous tribe;
A tribe of one lip, leaven, and of one
Civil behaviour, and religion;
A stock of saints, where ev'ry one doth wear
A stole of white, and canonised here;
Among which holies be thou ever known,
Brave kinsman, mark'd out with the whiter stone
Which seals thy glory, since I do prefer
Thee here in my eternal calender.

O jealousy, that art
The canker of the heart;
And mak'st all hell
Where thou do'st dwell;
For pity be
No fury, or no firebrand to me.

Far from me I'll remove
All thoughts of irksome love:
And turn to snow,
Or crystal grow,
To keep still free,
O! soul-tormenting jealousy, from thee.

Whom should I fear to write to if I can
Stand before you, my learn'd diocesan?
And never show blood-guiltiness or fear
To see my lines excathedrated here.
Since none so good are but you may condemn,
Or here so bad but you may pardon them.
If then, my lord, to sanctify my muse
One only poem out of all you'll choose,
And mark it for a rapture nobly writ,
'Tis good confirm'd, for you have bishop'd it.

How rich and pleasing thou, my Julia, art,
In each thy dainty and peculiar part!
First, for thy Queen-ship on thy head is set
Of flowers a sweet commingled coronet;
About thy neck a carkanet is bound,
Made of the Ruby, Pearl, and Diamond;
A golden ring, that shines upon thy thumb;
About thy wrist the rich Dardanium;
Between thy breasts, than down of swans more white,
There plays the Sapphire with the Chrysolite.
No part besides must of thyself be known,
But by the Topaz, Opal, Calcedon.

The saints'-bell calls, and, Julia, I must read
The proper lessons for the saints now dead:
To grace which service, Julia, there shall be
One holy collect said or sung for thee.
Dead when thou art, dear Julia, thou shalt have
A trentall sung by virgins o'er thy grave:
Meantime we two will sing the dirge of these,
Who dead, deserve our best remembrances.

Holy waters hither bring
For the sacred sprinkling:
Baptise me and thee, and so
Let us to the altar go,
And, ere we our rites commence,
Wash our hands in innocence.
Then I'll be the Rex Sacrorum,
Thou the Queen of Peace and Quorum.

Offer thy gift; but first the law commands
Thee, Julia, first, to sanctify thy hands:
Do that, my Julia, which the rites require,
Then boldly give thine incense to the fire.

I am zealless; prithee pray
For my welfare, Julia,
For I think the gods require
Male perfumes, but female fire.

Help me, Julia, for to pray,
Matins sing, or matins say:
This, I know, the fiend will fly
Far away, if thou be'st by.
Bring the holy water hither,
Let us wash and pray together;
When our beads are thus united,
Then the foe will fly affrighted.

Permit me, Julia, now to go away;
Or by thy love decree me here to stay.
If thou wilt say that I shall live with thee,
Here shall my endless tabernacle be:
If not, as banish'd, I will live alone
There where no language ever yet was known.

Julia, when thy Herrick dies,
Close thou up thy poet's eyes;
And his last breath, let it be
Taken in by none but thee.

By the next kindling of the day,
My Julia, thou shalt see,
Ere Ave-Mary thou canst say
I'll come and visit thee.

Yet ere thou counsel'st with thy glass,
Appear thou to mine eyes
As smooth, and nak'd, as she that was
The prime of paradise.

If blush thou must, then blush thou through
A lawn, that thou mayst look
As purest pearls, or pebbles do
When peeping through a brook.

As lilies shrin'd in crystal, so
Do thou to me appear;
Or damask roses when they grow
To sweet acquaintance there.

Besides us two, i' th' temple here's not one
To make up now a congregation.
Let's to the altar of perfumes then go,
And say short prayers; and when we have done so,
Then we shall see, how in a little space
Saints will come in to fill each pew and place.

Thou know'st, my Julia, that it is thy turn
This morning's incense to prepare and burn.
The chaplet and Inarculum[L] here be,
With the white vestures, all attending thee.
This day the queen-priest thou art made, t' appease
Love for our very many trespasses.
One chief transgression is, among the rest,
Because with flowers her temple was not dressed;
The next, because her altars did not shine
With daily fires; the last, neglect of wine;
For which her wrath is gone forth to consume
Us all, unless preserved by thy perfume.
Take then thy censer, put in fire, and thus,
O pious priestess! make a peace for us.
For our neglect Love did our death decree;
That we escape. Redemption comes by thee.

Is this a fast, to keep
    The larder lean?
        And clean
From fat of veals and sheep?

Is it to quit the dish
    Of flesh, yet still
        To fill
The platter high with fish?

Is it to fast an hour,
    Or ragg'd to go,
        Or show
A downcast look and sour?

No; 'tis a fast to dole
    Thy sheaf of wheat,
        And meat,
Unto the hungry soul.

It is to fast from strife,
    From old debate
        And hate;
To circumcise thy life.

To show a heart grief-rent;
    To starve thy sin,
        Not bin;
And that's to keep thy Lent.

No more shall I, since I am driven hence,
Devote to thee my grains of frankincense;
No more shall I from mantle-trees hang down,
To honour thee, my little parsley crown;
No more shall I (I fear me) to thee bring
My chives of garlic for an offering;
No more shall I from henceforth hear a choir
Of merry crickets by my country fire.
Go where I will, thou lucky Lar stay here,
Warm by a glitt'ring chimney all the year.

A funeral stone
Or verse, I covet none;
But only crave
Of you that I may have
A sacred laurel springing from my grave:
Which being seen
Blest with perpetual green,
May grow to be
Not so much call'd a tree,
As the eternal monument of me.