And for this dead, which under lies,
Wept out her heart, as well as eyes.
But endless peace sit here, and keep
My Phil, the time he has to sleep;
And thousand virgins come and weep,
To make these flow'ry carpets show
Fresh as their blood, and ever grow,
Till passengers shall spend their doom;
Not Virgil's gnat had such a tomb!"

Upon a Maid.

"Here she lies, in beds of spice,
Fair as Eve in paradise ;

For her beauty it was such,
Poets could not praise too much.
Virgins, come, and in a ring
Her supremest requiem sing;
Then depart, but see ye tread
Lightly, lightly o'er the dead."

Upon a Child.

"But born, and like a short delight,
I glided from my parents' sight.
That done, the harder fates deny'd
My longer stay, and so I died.
If, pitying my sad parents' tears,
You'l spill a tear or two with theirs,
And with some flow'rs my grave bestrew,
Love and they'll thank you for 't. Adieu."

Upon Ben Jonson.

"Here lies Jonson, with the rest

Of the poets, but the best.

Reader, would'st thou more have known?

Ask his story, not the stone;

That will speak, what this can't tell

Of his glory. So farewell."

And a variety of votive hymns, of which the following may

serve as a specimen :

A Hymn to Venus.

"Goddess, I do love a girl,

Ruby-lip'd, and tooth'd with pearl;

If so be I may but prove
Lucky in this maid I love,

I will promise there shall be
Myrtles offer'd up to thee."

Among his miscellaneous poems, the mad Maid's Song is

worth extracting.

The mad Maid's Song.

"Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew:

Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid,
That will with flow'rs the tomb bestrew
Wherein my love is laid.

Ah, woe is me; woe, woe is me!
Alack, and well-a-day!
For pity, sir, find out that bee
Which bore my love away.

I'll seek him in your bonnet brave,

I'll seek him in your eyes;

Nay, now I think they've made his grave
I'th' bed of strawberries:

I'll seek him there; I know ere this

The cold, cold earth doth shake him ;

But I will go, or send a kiss

By you, sir, to awake him.

Pray hurt him not; though he be dead,
He knows well who do love him,
And who with green turfs rear his head,
And who do rudely move him.

He's soft and tender, pray take heed,
With bands of cowslips bind him,
And bring him home;-but 'tis decreed
That I shall never find him!"

The Bucolick between Lacon and Thyrsis deserves a place in this anthology, as a specimen of his skill in that department of poetry.

"Lacon. For a kiss or two, confess

What doth cause this pensiveness,
Thou most lovely neatherdess?

Why so lonely on the hill;

Why thy pipe by thee so still,

That ere while was heard so shrill?

Tell me, do thy kine now fail

To fulfil the milking pail?

Say, what is't that thou dost ail?

Thyrsis. None of these; but out, alas!

A mischance is come to pass;

And I'll tell thee what it was:
See, mine eyes are weeping ripe.

Lacon. Tell, and I'll lay down my pipe.
Thyrsis. I have lost my lovely steer,

That to me was far more dear

Than these kine which I milk here;
Broad of forehead, large of eye,

Party-colour'd like a pie,

Smooth in each limb as a die;

Clear of hoof, and clear of horn,

Sharply pointed as a thorn;

With a neck by yoke unworn,

From the which hung down by strings,

Balls of cowslips, daisy rings,

Interplac'd by ribandings;
Faultless ev'ry way for shape,
Not a straw could him escape,
Ever gamesome as an ape;
But
yet harmless as a sheep.
Pardon, Lacon, if I weep;

Tears will spring where woes are deep.

Now, ah me! ah me! last night

Came a mad dog, and did bite,
Aye, and kill'd my dear delight.
Lacon. Alack, for grief!
Thyrsis. But I'll be brief.
Hence I must; for time doth call

Me, and my sad playmates all,
To his ev'ning funeral.

Live long, Lacon; so adieu!

Lacon. Mournful maid, farewell to you;

Earth afford ye flow'rs to strew!"

There is a great deal of poetical imagery in the piece entitled "Corinna's going a Maying."

"Get
up, get up for shame; the blooming morn
Upon her wings presents the God unshorn:
See how Aurora throws her fair
Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
The dew bespangling herb and tree:
Each flow'r has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since; yet you not drest;

Nay, not so much as out of bed;

When all the birds have mattins said,
And sung their thankful hymns; 'tis sin,
Nay, profanation, to keep in;

When as a thousand virgins on this day,
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May!

Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth like the spring time, fresh and
And sweet as Flora. Take no care
For jewels for your gown, or hair:
Fear not, the leaves will strew

Gems in abundance upon you:

green,

Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept :
Come, and receive them, while the light
Hangs on the dew-locks of the night,

And Titan on the eastern hill

Retires himself, or else stands still

Till you come forth. Wash, dress, be brief in praying;
Few beads are best, when once we go a Maying!

Come, my Corinna, come; and, coming, mark
How each field turns a street, each street a park
Made green, and trimm'd with trees; see how
Devotion gives each house a bough,

Or branch; each porch, each door, ere this
An ark, a tabernacle is

Made up of whitethorn newly interwove,
As if here, were those cooler shades of love.

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 whitethorn laden home :
Some have dispatch'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!"

Herrick had so very high a notion of the value of his compositions, that he conceived it necessary only to mention his friends in this volume, in order to confer immortality upon them. He constituted himself high priest of the temple of fame, and assumed the power of apotheosizing such writers as he conceived deserving of that honour, never once dreaming of the possibility of both himself and works being neglected or forgotten. Many addresses to his friends and relations, avowing his potency in this high vocation, are scattered through his works. Some of them, however, have juster titles to immortality than the lay of the poet can confer,-such as Selden and Ben Jonson. He addresses that patron of poets, Mr. Endymion Porter, in these words: