I am bound, and fast bound, so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could, I would not so.

CXIII.

HYMN TO NEPTUNE.

MIGHTY Neptune, may it please
Thee, the rector of the seas,
That my bark may safely run
Through thy watʼry region;
And a tunny-fish shall be
Offer'd up, with thanks to thee,

CXIV.

THE KISS.

A DIALOGUE.

AMONG thy fancies, tell me this:
What is the thing we call a kiss?-
I shall resolve ye what it is:

It is a creature born, and bred
Between the lips all cherry red;
By love, and warm desires fed;
And makes more soft the bridal bed:

It is an active flame, that flies
First to the babies* of the eyes,
And charms them there with lullabies;
And stills the bride too when she cries:

Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
It frisks, and flies; now here, now there
'Tis now far off, and then 'tis near;
And here, and there, and every-where.-

* See poems 11, & 99.

Has it a speaking virtue ?—Yes.

How speaks it, say?—Do you but this,
Part your join'd lips, then speaks your kiss ;
And this love's sweetest language is.-

Has it a body?-Aye, and wings,
With thousand rare encolourings;

And, as it flies, it gently sings,
Love honey yields, but never stings.

CXV.

THE ADMONITION.

SEE'ST thou those diamonds, which she wears

In that rich carcanet;

Or those, on her dishevell'd hairs,

Fair pearls in order set?

Believe, young man, all those were tears
By wretched wooers sent

In mournful hyacinths and rue,

That figure discontent;

Which, when not warmed by her view,
By cold neglect each one

Congeal'd to pearl and stone;

Which precious spoils upon her

She wears, as trophies of her honour.

Ah, then, consider what all this implies;

She that will wear thy tears, would wear thine eyes!

POEM CXV. The gallant conceit of this short poem is perhaps unequalled by any amatory writer.

CXVI,

HIS AGE.

DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND,
MR. JOHN WICKES,

UNDER THE NAME OF POSTHUMUS.

*Ан, Рosthumus! our years hence fly, And leave no sound: nor piety,

Or prayers, or vow,

Can keep the wrinkle from the brow;
But we must on,

As fate does lead or draw us. None,
None, Posthumus, could e'er decline
The doom of cruel Proserpine.

The pleasing wife, the house, the ground
Must all be left; no one plant found
To follow thee,

Save only the curs'd cypress tree.

A merry mind

Looks forward, scorns what's left behind:

Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may;

And here enjoy our holiday.

We've seen the past, best times; and these

Will ne'er return: we see the seas,

And moons to wane;

But they fill up their ebbs again :

POEM CXVI.] I suspect the person to whom this poem is dedicated to have been the John Wicks, or Weekes, mentioned by Wood in his Fasti Oxoniensis, page 39, vol. 2, a facetious character, and popular preacher; he suffered much for the royal cause in the reign of Charles the first.

*HORAT. Ode 14. Lib. 2.

But vanish'd man,

Like to a lily lost, ne'er can,
Ne'er can repullulate, or bring
His days to see a second spring.

But on we must; and thither tend
Where Ancus, and rich Tullus blend*

Their sacred seed:

Thus has infernal Jove decreed :

We must be made

Ere long a song, ere long a shade.
Why then, since life to us is short,

Let's make it full up by our sport.

Crown we our heads with roses then,
And 'noint with Syrian balm; for whent
We two are dead,

The world with us is buried:

Then live we free

As is the air, and let us be

Our own fair wind, and mark each one
Day with the white and lucky stone.

We are not poor; although we have
No roofs of cedar, nor our brave
Baiæ, nor keep

Account of such a flock of sheep,

*HORAT. Ode 7. Lib. 4.

HORAT. Ode 11. Lib. 2. Herrick's book has Tirian, which, I presume, is a misprint.

HORAT. Ode 18. Lib. 2.

Nor bullocks fed

To lard the shambles; barbels bred
To kiss our hands; nor do we wish
For Pollio's lampries in our dish.

If we can meet, and so confer
Both by a shining saltcellar ;*

And have our roof,

Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof;
And ceiling free

From that cheap candle-bawdery ;+
We'll eat our bean with that full mirth,
As we were lords of all the earth.

Well then; on what seas we are tost,

Our comfort is, we can't be lost:

Let the winds drive

Our bark, yet she will keep alive

Amidst the deeps:

'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps
The pinnace up; which, though she errs
I'th' seas, she saves her passengers.

Say, we must part; sweet mercy bless
Us both i'th' sea, camp, wilderness!

Can we so far

Stray, to become less circular

Than we are now?

No, no; that selfsame heart, that vow
Which made us one shall ne'er undo,

Or ravel, so to make us two.

* HORAT. Ode 16. Lib. 2.

+ Obscene words, and figures made with candle-smoke, not unfrequently met with in the habitations of the vulgar, shewing a viciousness which is thus cheaply indulged.