Born I was to be old,

Art presupposes nature; nature, shePrepares the way for man’s docility.

Yet trust me, I shall knowThe place where I may find ye.Within my Lucia’s cheek,(Whose livery ye wear)Play ye at hide or seek,I’m sure to find ye there.

Thou shalt not all die; for while Love’s fire shinesUpon his altar, men shall read thy lines;And learn’d musicians shall, to honour Herrick’sFame, and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.To his book’s end this last line he’d have placed:–Jocund his Muse was, but his Life was chaste.

First, for thy Queen-ship on thy head is setOf flowers a sweet commingled coronet;About thy neck a carkanet is bound,Made of the Ruby, Pearl, and Diamond;A golden ring, that shines upon thy thumb;About thy wrist the rich Dardanium;Between thy breasts, than down of swans more white,There plays the Sapphire with the Chrysolite.No part besides must…

Whereupon in anger flyingTo his Mother, said thus crying;Help! O help! your Boy’s a dying.And why, my pretty Lad, said she?Then blubbering, replyed he,A winged Snake has bitten me,Which Country people call a Bee.At which she smil’d; then with her hairsAnd kisses drying up his tears:Alas! said she, my Wag! if thisSuch a pernicious torment…