Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see The dew-bespangled herb and tree! Whenas a thousand virgins on this day Rise, and put on your foliage, and be seen Fear not; the leaves will strew Gems in abundance upon you: Besides, the childhood of the day has kept, Retires himself, or else stands still Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying: Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying. Come, my Corinna, come; and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park, Made green and trimmed with trees! see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch! each porch, each door, ere this, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. And sin no more, as we have done, by staying, There's not a budding boy or girl this day, Back and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream, And some have wept and wooed, and plighted troth, From out the eye, love's firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked: yet we're not a-Maying. Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Our life is short, and our days run Lies drowned with us in endless night. VIII TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING BID me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love and I will give A heart as soft, a heart as kind, Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep And, having none, yet I will keep Bid me despair, and I'll despair Or bid me die, and I will dare Thou art my life, my love, my heart, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. Herrick. IX MEMENTO MORI SWEET day, so cool, so calm, so bright- Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, Only a sweet and virtuous soul Like seasoned timber never gives, But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. X THE KING OF KINGS THE glories of our birth and state Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on their brow Then boast no more your mighty deeds! Upon Death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds! All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the actions of the just Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust. |