In this little Urne is laid

A little out, and then,As if they played at Bo-peep,Did soon draw in again.

Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay,Ravished in that fair Via Lactea.

And this same flower that smiles to-day,To-morrow will be dying.The glorious lamp of heaven, 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 worstTimes, still succeed the former.– Then be not coy,…

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.

A richess of those sweets she found,As in another Rosamond;But gathering roses as she was,Not knowing what would come to pass,it chanced a ringlet of her hairCaught my poor soul, as in a snare;Which ever since has been in thrall;–Yet freedom she enjoys withal.