Yet, though thus respected,

By and by

Ye do lie,

Poor girls, neglected.

LXXI.

TO CARNATIONS.

A SONG.

STAY while ye will, or go;

And leave no scent behind ye;

Yet, trust me, I shall know

The place where I may find ye.

GATHER ye rose-buds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;

POEM LXXII.] This is perhaps the sweetest of onr poet's lyrick effusions; to point it out to the reader of taste as such were unnecessary. It may however be observed, that the beginning of it has furnished words to one of the most delightful glees our elegant composer Hook ever produced. The excellence of Herrick in this species of versification is alluded to, in a quaint satire called, Naps on Parnassus, &c. 1658.

Flaccus Horace,

He was but a sour-ass,

And good for nothing but Lyrick;
There's but one to be found

In all English ground

Writes as well;-who is hight Robert Herrick.

And this same flow'r, that smiles to-day, To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heav'n, the sun,

The higher he's a getting;

The sooner will his race be run,

And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best which is the first, When youth and blood are warmer; But, being spent, the worse; and worst Times still succeed the former.

Then be not coy, but use your time;
And while ye may, go marry :
For, having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

LXXIII.

TO THE LARK.

GOOD speed, for I this day

Betimes my mattins say;

Because I do

Begin to woo;

Sweet singing lark,

Be thou the clerk,

And know thy when

To say, amen :

And, if I prove
Blest in my love;
Then thou shalt be

High-priest to me,

At my return,

To incense burn;
And so to solemnize

Love's, and my sacrifice.

LXXIV.

A MEDITATION FOR HIS MISTRESS.

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-flow'r;

Yet one rude wind, or ruffling show'r
Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose in th' bud;
Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can shew where you or grew, or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine;
Yet dried, ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm inclosed well
In amber, or some crystal shell ;
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet;

Yet wither'd, ere you can be set
Within the virgin's coronet.

You are the queen all flow'rs among;
But die yon must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.

LXXV.

THE BLEEDING HAND; OR, THE SPRIG OF
EGLANTINE GIVEN TO A MAID.

FROM this bleeding hand of mine
Take this sprig of eglantine;

Which, though sweet unto your smell,
Yet the fretful briar will tell,

He who plucks the sweets shall prove
Many thorns to be in love.

LXXVI.

THE FAIRY TEMPLE; OR, OBERON'S CHAPEL. DEDICATED TO MR. JOHN MERRIFIELD, COUNSELLOR AT LAW.

RARE temples thou hast seen, I know,
And rich for in and outward show:

Survey this chapel, built alone,
Without or lime, or wood, or stone;
Then say, if thou hast seen more fine
Than this, the fairies' once, now thine.

A way enchas'd with glass and beads
There is, that to the chapel leads;
Whose structure, for his holy rest,
Is here the halcyon's curious nest;
Into the which who looks shall see
His temple of idolatry,

Where he of godheads has such store,
As Rome's Pantheon had not more.

POEM LXXVI.] Our poet seems more particularly to have delighted in drawing the manner, and costume of the fairy world. He has devoted several of his most elaborate poems to these sportive creations of fancy, in which a vari ety of curious, and minute imagery is appositely introduced.

F

DRAKE.

His house of Rimmon* this he calls,
Girt with small bones instead of walls:
First, in a niche more black than jet
His idol cricket there is set;
Then, in a polish'd oval by
There stands his idol beetle-fly:
Next, in an arch akin to this
His idol canker seated is;
Then, in a round is plac'd by these
His golden god cantharides:
So that where'er ye look, ye see

No capital, no cornice free,

Or frieze, from this fine frippery.

Now this the fairies would have known,

Their's is a mix'd religion;

And some have heard the elves it call

Part pagan, part papistical.

If unto me all tongues were granted,
I could not speak the saints here painted;
Saint Tit, saint Nit, saint Is, saint Itis,
Who against Mab's state plac'd here right is ;
Saint Will-o'-th'-wisp, of no great bigness,
But alias call'd here Fatuus ignis;

Saint Frip, saint Trip, saint Fill, saint Filly;
Neither those other saintships will I
Here go about for to recite,

Their number almost infinite;

Which one by one here set down are
In this most curious calendar.
First, at the entrance of the gate,
A little puppet-priest doth wait,

A Hebrew word signifying a pomegranate, and was an idol mentioned in scripture. KINGS ii. ch. 5. ver. 18.