Clouds of affection from our younger eyes Stronger by weakness, wiser men become ROBERT HERRICK. Born 1594. Died 1674. A THANKSGIVING TO God. LORD, thou hast given me a cell, Wherein to dwell; A little house, whose humble roof Under the spars of which I lie Both soft and dry; Where thou, my chamber for to ward, Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep Low is my porch, as is my fate; And yet the threshold of my door Who thither come, and freely get Good words, or meat. Like as my parlour, so my hall And kitchen's small. A little buttery and therein Which keeps my little loaf of bread Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar Close by whose living coal I sit, Lord, I confess too, when I dine, And all those other bits that be There placed by thee; The worts, the purslain and the mess Which of thy kindness thou hast sent; Makes these and my beloved beet To be more sweet. 'Tis thou that crown'st my glittering hearth With guiltless mirth, And giv'st me wassail bowls to drink, Lord, 'tis thy plenty-dropping hand And giv'st me for my bushel sown, Thou mak'st my teeming hen to lay Besides my healthful ewes to bear The twins each year; The while the conduits of my kine All these and better thou dost send That I should render, for my part, Which, fired with incense, I resign. -But the acceptance, that must be, TO BLOSSOMS. 'AIR pledges of a fruitful tree, FAIR Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile, What, were ye born to be An hour or half's delight; And so to bid good-night? 'Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride, Like you, a-while-they glide Into the grave. When flowing cups run swiftly round With no allaying Thames, Our careless heads with roses crowned, Our hearts with loyal flames; When thirsty grief in wine we steep, When healths and draughts go free, Fishes that tipple in the deep Know no such liberty. When, like committed linnets, I When I shall voice aloud how good Stone walls do not a prison make, GOING TO THE WARS. ELL me not, sweet, I am unkind, TELL That from the nunnery Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind To wars and arms I fly. True, a new mistress now I chase, And with a stronger faith embrace Yet this inconstancy is such I could not love thee, dear, so much, |