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Come, Sion's daughters ! come away,

And crowned with his diadem,
King Solomon behold you may.

That crown his mother set on him,
When he a married man was made,
And in his heart contentment had.


Lord, living here are we

As fast united yet,
As when our hands and hearts by Thee

Together first were knit.
And in a thankful song

Now sing we will Thy praise,
For that Thou dost as well prolong

Our loving, as our days.

The frowardness that springs

From our corrupted kind,
Or from those troublous outward things,


distract the mind;
Permit not thou, O Lord,

Our constant love to shake;
Or to disturb our true accord.

Or make our hearts to ache.

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The voice which I did more esteem

Than music in her sweetest key;
Those eyes which unto me did seem

More comfortable than the day:
Those now by me, as they have been,

Shall never more be heard or seen :
But what I once enjoyed in them,

Shall seem hereafter as a dream,




Thereof be therefore heedful,

Them favor not the less,
Supply with all things needful

In this our great distress.

And when Thou me shalt gather,

Out of this Land of Life,
Be Thou my children's Father,

A Husband to my wife.

When I to them must never

Speak more with tongue or pen,
And they be barred forever

To see my face again

Preserve them from each folly,

Which, ripening into sin,
Makes root and branch unholy,

And brings destruction in.

Let not this world bewitch them

With her besotting wine,
But let Thy grace enrich them

With faith and love divine.

And whilst we live together,

Let us upon Thee call,
Help to prepare each other,

For what may yet befall :

So just, so faithful-hearted,

So constant let us be,
That when we here are parted,

We may all meet in Thee.


ROBERT HERRICK was born in London, in 1591. He was educated at Cambridge, and was presented by Charles the First to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in Devonshire, in 1629; from which, during the troubles of the times, he was ejected. The time of his death is unknown. The works of Herrick do not offer much serious poetry for choice, but what little there is is worth preserving. He is known and admired as the writer of gay Anacreontic songs, for which, in his ripe age, he prayed for absolution in the following verses :

For these my unbaptizéd rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed times,
For every sentence, clause, and word,
That's not inlaid with thee, O Lord,
Forgive me, God, and blot each line
Out of my book that is not thine ;
But if ’mongst all thou findest one
Worthy thy benediction,
That one of all the rest shall be
The glory of my work, and me.






In the hour of my distress,
When temptations me oppress,
And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
When I lie within


Sick at heart, and sick at head,
And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
When the house doth sigh and weep,
And the world is drowned in sleep,
Yet mine eyes the watch do keep;

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the passing bell doth toll,
And the furies in a shoal
Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When God knows I'm tossed about,
Either with despair or doubt,
Yet before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tapers now burn blue,
And the comforters are few,
And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the priest his last hath prayed, And I nod to what is said, 'Cause my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the tempter me pursueth
With the sins of all my youth,
And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the flames and hellish cries Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes, And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

When the judgment is revealed,
And that opened which was sealed,
When to Thee I have appealed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

Fair pledges of a fruitful tree,

Why do ye fall so fast?
Your date is not so past,


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 ye 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.

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Fair daffodils, we weep to see

You haste away so soon;
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attained its noon.

Stay, stay,
Until the hasting day

Has run
But to the even-song:
And having prayed 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 any thing:

We die
As your hours do; and dry

Like to the summer-rain,
Or as the pearls of morning-dew,

Ne'er to be found again.

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