‘Good sir, make no more cuts i’ th’ outward skin,
One slit’s enough to let adultery in.
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Begin to charm, and as thou strok’st mine ears
Then let thy active hand scud o’er thy lyre,And make my spirits frantic with the fire;That done, sink down into a silvery strain,And make me smooth as balm and oil again.
I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear,
Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth winGrace with the gods who’s sorry for his sin.That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come,And go with me to chuse my burial room:My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies,Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.
BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend,
Though they be few in number, I’m content;If otherwise, I stand indifferent,Nor makes it matter, Nestor’s years to tell,If man lives long, and if he live not well.A multitude of days still heaped onSeldom brings order, but confusion.Might I make choice, long life should be with-stood;Nor would I care how short it were, if good;Which…
Dew sate on Julia’s hair,
Like leaves that laden areWith trembling dew;Or glitter’d to my sight,As when the beamsHave their reflected lightDanced by the streams.
In all thy need, be thou possest
Nor let the shackles make thee sad;Thou canst but have what others had.And this for comfort thou must know,Times that are ill won’t still be so:Clouds will not ever pour down rain;A sullen day will clear again.First, peals of thunder we must hear;When lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.
These springs were maidens once that loved,
My story tells, by Love they wereTurn’d to these springs which we see here:The pretty whimpering that they make,When of the banks their leave they take,Tells ye but this, they are the same,In nothing changed but in their name.