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I have lost, and lately, these
Stately Julia, prime of all;Sapho next, a principal:Smooth Anthea, for a skinWhite, and heaven-like crystalline:Sweet Electra, and the choiceMyrha, for the lute and voice.Next, Corinna, for her wit,And the graceful use of it;With Perilla:–All are gone;Only Herrick’s left alone,For to number sorrow byTheir departures hence, and die.
What can I do in poetry,
Why, nothing now but lonely sitAnd over-read what I have writ.
When with the virgin morning thou dost rise,
First wash thy heart in innocence; then bringPure hands, pure habits, pure, pure every thing.Next to the altar humbly kneel, and thenceGive up thy soul in clouds of frankincense.Thy golden censers fill’d with odours sweetShall make thy actions with their ends to meet.
Down with the rosemary and bays,
Instead of holly, now up-raiseThe greener box, for show.The holly hitherto did sway;Let box now domineer,Until the dancing Easter-day,Or Easter’s eve appear.Then youthful box, which now hath graceYour houses to renew,Grown old, surrender must his placeUnto the crisped yew.When yew is out, then birch comes in,And many flowers beside,Both of a fresh and fragrant kin,To…