"THINK NOT, 'CAUSE MEN FLATT'RING SAY."

143

In plenty hoard for time of scant.

For when the storms of Time have moved

Waves on that cheek which was beloved;
When a fair lady's face is pined,

And yellow spread where red once shined;
When beauty, youth, and all sweets leave her,

Love may return, but lovers never :
And old folks say there are no pains
Like itch of love in aged veins.

O love me then, and now begin it,
Let us not lose this present minute;
For time and age will work that wrack
Which time or age shall ne'er call back.
The snake each year fresh skin resumes,
And eagles change their aged plumes;
The faded rose, each spring, receives
A fresh red tincture on her leaves:
But if your beauties once decay,
You never know a second May.

Oh, then, be wise, and whilst your season
Affords you days for sport, do reason;
Spend not in vain your life's short hour,
But crop in time your beauties' flower,
Which will away, and doth together

Both bud and fade, both blow and wither.

TO CORINNA, TO GO A-MAYING.

BY ROBERT HERRICK,

[ROBERT HERRICK, the son of a goldsmith, was born in London. in the year 1591. He studied at Cambridge, took holy orders, and obtained a living from Charles I. This he lost during the Civil Wars, and received again at the Restoration. He is believed to have lived

to a good old age, though the time of his death is unknown.

Herrick associated with Ben Jonson and the other social spirits of the time. His poems exhibit, in some instances, a licentiousness which he deeply regretted in his after life. His language is picturesque and beautiful, and his verses, though very irregular, are, at times, extremely melodious.]

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 flower has wept, and bow'd toward the east,
Above an hour since, yet you are not drest,

Nay, not so much as out of bed;

When all the birds have matins 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.