Bulchevy's Book of English Verse Part 41

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 despatch'd 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 Lies drown'd with us in endless night.

Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let 's go a-Maying.

beads] prayers. green-gown] tumble on the gra.s.s.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

248. To the Virgins, to make much of Time

GATHER ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying: And this same flower that smiles to-day To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the sun, The higher he 's a-getting, The sooner will his race be run, And nearer he 's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But being spent, the worse, and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time, And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

249. To the Western Wind

SWEET western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair:

Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me, And all beset with flowers.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

250. To Electra

I DARE not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while.

No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air That lately kissed thee.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

251. To Violets

WELCOME, maids of honour!

You do bring In the spring, And wait upon her.

She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any.

You're the maiden posies, And so graced To be placed 'Fore damask roses.

Yet, though thus respected, By-and-by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

252. To Daffodils

FAIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon.

Stay, stay Until the hasting day Has run But to the evensong; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along.

We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything.

We die As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

253. To Blossoms

FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast?

Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.

What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night?

'Twas pity Nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth And lose you quite.

But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674

254. The Primrose

ASK me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year?

Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew?

I will whisper to your ears:-- The sweets of love are mix'd with tears.

Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too?

Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending (yet it doth not break)?

I will answer:--These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover.

Robert Herrick. 1591-1674