The love of conquests now give o'er; To your much-injur'd peace and name Love's farewell as a tribute pay; Grow now reserv'd, and raise your fame By your own choice, not your decay. She that to age her charms resigns, ROBERT HERRICK, Author of a collection of poems published under the title of "Hesperides," 8vo. 1648. The volume contains two little pieces, "the Primrose," and "the Inquiry," which are printed in Carew's poems. Phillips in his "Theatrum Poetarum" thinks him "not particularly influenced by 86 any nymph or goddess, except his maid Pru:" but allows him to have shown occasionally "a pretty flowery and "pastoral gale of fancy," &c. Wood tells us (Vol. II. p. 122) that he was a Londoner born, though of a Leicestershire family; elected fellow of All Souls College, Oxford, from St. John's, but took no degree: that, being patronized by the earl of Essex, he afterwards resided in Devonshire, much beloved, till, forced to withdraw, he retired to London, where he was still living, subsequent to the Restoration. For farther particulars, see Gent. Mag. for 1796, p. 461,645. HEAR SONG. ye virgins, and I'll teach, What the times of old did preach. Rosamond was in a bower Kept, as Danae in a tower: But yet love, who subtle is, Be ye lock'd up like to these, Or the rich Hesperides ; Or those babies in your eyes, A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS. [From 7 stanzas.] You are a tulip, seen to-day, But, dearest, of so short a stay, That where you grew scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud,— Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can shew where you or grew, or stood. You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd, ere you can be set You are the queen all flowers among, But die you must, fair maid, ere long, SONNET. Am I despis'd because you say, Then, when in your glass you seek, O then too late in close your chamber keeping It will be told That you are old By those true tears you're weeping. THE MAD MAID'S SONG. [From 7 stanzas.] GOOD-morrow to the day so fair; Bedabbled with the dew. Good-morning to this primrose too; That will with flowers the tomb bestrew 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's soft and tender-pray, take heedWith bands of cowslips bind him ; And bring him home-but 'tis decreed That I shall never find him. |