That fleet of lackeys which do run
Before thy swift postilion;
Those strong-hoof’d mules, which we behold
Rein’d in with purple, pearl, and gold,
And shed with silver, prove to be
The drawers of the axle-tree;
Thy wife, thy children, and the state
Of Persian looms and antique plate:
–All these, and more, shall then afford
No joy to thee, their sickly lord.
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.
Lest having that, or this,I might grow proud the while.No, no, the utmost shareOf my desire shall be,Only to kiss that airThat lately kissed thee,
And this our life, too, whirls away,With the rotation of the day.
Down with the holly, ivy, allWherewith ye dress’d the Christmas hall;That so the superstitious findNo one least branch there left behind;For look, how many leaves there beNeglected there, maids, trust to me,So many goblins you shall see.
Wherewith young men and maids distrestAnd left of love, are crown’d.When once the lover’s rose is deadOr laid aside forlorn,Then willow-garlands, ’bout the head,Bedew’d with tears, are worn.When with neglect, the lover’s bane,Poor maids rewarded be,For their love lost their only gainIs but a wreath from thee.And underneath thy cooling shade,When weary of the light,The…
