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For which obedient zeal of thine,
We offer here, before thy shrine,
Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;
And to make fine
And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will here
Four times bestrew thee every year.
Receive, for this thy praise, our tears;
Receive this offering of our hairs;
Receive these crystal vials, fill'd
With tears, distill'd
From teeming eyes; to these we bring,
Each maid, her silver filleting,
To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,
These laces, ribbons, and these falls,
These veils, wherewith we use to hide
The bashful bride,
When we conduct her to her groom;
All, all we lay upon thy tomb.
No more, no more, since thou art dead,
Shall we e'er bring coy brides to bed;
No more, at yearly festivals,
We, cowslip balls,
Or chains of columbines shall make,
For this or that occasion's sake.
No, no; our maiden pleasures be
Wrapt in the winding-sheet with thee;
'Tis we are dead, though not i' th' grave;
Or if we have
One seed of life left, 'tis to keep
A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.
Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,
And make this place all paradise ;
May sweets grow here, and smoke from hence
Let balm and cassia send their scent
From out thy maiden-monument.
May no wolf howl, or screech owl stir
A wing about thy sepulchre !
No boisterous winds or storms come hither,
To starve or wither
Thy soft sweet earth; but, like a spring,
Love keep it ever flourishing.
May all shy maids, at wonted hours,
Come forth to strew thy tomb with flowers.
May virgins, when they come to mourn,
Upon thine altar; then return,
And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.
Not all thy flushing suns are set,
Herrick, as yet;
Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere
Frown and look sullen everywhere;
Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest
As dead within the West,
Yet the next morn regild the fragrant East.
Alas! for me! that I have lost
E'en all, almost!
Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,
And all the loom of life undone;
The staff, the elm, the prop, the sheltering wall
Whereon my vine did crawl,
Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall
Yet, Porter, while thou keep'st alive,
In death I thrive,
And like a Phoenix re-aspire
From out my nard and funeral fire, And as I prime my feathered youth, so I Do marvell how I could die When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.
I'm up, I'm up, and bless that hand,
Which makes me stand
Now as I do, and, but for thee,
I must confess, I could not be ;
The debt is paid, for he who doth resign
Thanks to the generous Vine,
Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.
WHAT LOVE IS.
Love is a circle, that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of Love.
UPON PREW HIS MAID.
In this little urn is laid
Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid,
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.
THE WHITE ISLAND.
In this world, the Isle of Dreams,
While we sit by sorrow's streams,
Tears and terrors are our themes,
But when once from hence we fly,
More and more approaching nigh
Unto young eternity,
In that whiter Island, where
Things are evermore sincere ;
Candour here, and lustre there,
There no monstrous fancies shall
Out of hell an horror call,
To create, or cause at all
Thou sweetly canst convert the same
From a consuming fire,
Into a gentle-licking flame,
And make it thus expire.
Then make me weep
My pains asleep,
And give me such reposes,
That I, poor I,
May think, thereby,
I live and die
Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers,
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers.
Melt, melt my pains
With thy soft strains;
That having ease me given,
With full delight,
I leave this light,
And take my flight
Shapcot to thee the Fairy State
I with discretion dedicate:
Because thou prizest things that are
Curious and unfamiliar,
Take first the feast; these dishes gone,
We'll see the Fairy-court anon.
A little mushroom-table spread,
After short prayers, they set on bread,
A moon-parch'd grain of purest wheat,
With some small glitt'ring grit, to eat
His choice bits with; then in a trice
They make a feast less great than nice.
But all this while his eye is served,
We must not think his ear was sterved;
But that there was in place to stir
His spleen, the chirring grasshopper,
The merry cricket, puling fly,
The piping gnat for minstrelsy.
And now, we must imagine first,
The elves present, to quench his thirst,
A pure seed-pearl of infant dew,
Brought and besweeten'd in a blue
And pregnant violet; which done,
His kitling eyes begin to run
Quite through the table, where he spics
The horns of papery butterflies,
Of which he eats; and tastes a little
Of that we call the cuckoo's spittle;