Hesperides, by Robert Herrick

Look how our foul days do exceed our fair;

And as our bad, more than our good works are,

E’en so those lines, pen’d by my wanton wit,

Treble the number of these good I’ve writ.

Things precious are least numerous: men are prone

To do ten bad for one good action.

For those my unbaptised rhymes,

Writ in my wild unhallowed times;

For every sentence, clause, and word,

That’s not inlaid with Thee, my Lord,

Forgive me, God, and blot each line

Out of my book that is not Thine.

But if, ‘mongst all, thou find’st here one

Worthy Thy benediction;

That one of all the rest shall be

The glory of my work and me.

Weigh me the fire; or canst thou find

A way to measure out the wind;

Distinguish all those floods that are

Mix’d in that watery theatre;

And taste thou them as saltless there

As in their channel first they were.

Tell me the people that do keep

Within the kingdoms of the deep;

Or fetch me back that cloud again

Beshiver’d into seeds of rain;

Tell me the motes, dust, sands, and spears

Of corn, when summer shakes his ears;

Show me that world of stars, and whence

They noiseless spill their influence:

This if thou canst, then show me Him

That rides the glorious cherubim.

God is above the sphere of our esteem,

And is the best known, not defining Him.

God is not only said to be

An Ens, but Supraentity.

God hath two wings which He doth ever move;

The one is mercy, and the next is love:

Under the first the sinners ever trust;

And with the last He still directs the just.

God when He’s angry here with anyone,

His wrath is free from perturbation;

And when we think His looks are sour and grim,

The alteration is in us, not Him.

’Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend

Him, as He is, is labour without end.

Prayers and praises are those spotless two

Lambs, by the law, which God requires as due.

God ne’er afflicts us more than our desert,

Though He may seem to overact His part:

Sometimes He strikes us more than flesh can bear;

But yet still less than grace can suffer here.

Three fatal sisters wait upon each sin;

First, fear and shame without, then guilt within.

Suffer thy legs, but not thy tongue to walk:

God, the Most Wise, is sparing of His talk.

True mirth resides not in the smiling skin:

The sweetest solace is to act no sin.

God loads and unloads, thus His work begins,

To load with blessings and unload from sins.

God’s boundless mercy is, to sinful man,

Like to the ever-wealthy ocean:

Which though it sends forth thousand streams, ’tis ne’er

Known, or else seen, to be the emptier;

And though it takes all in, ’tis yet no more

Full, and fill’d full, than when full fill’d before.

God, He rejects all prayers that are slight

And want their poise: words ought to have their weight.

Verse. My God, I’m wounded by my sin,

And sore without, and sick within.

Ver. Chor. I come to Thee, in hope to find

Salve for my body and my mind.

Verse. In Gilead though no balm be found

To ease this smart or cure this wound,

Ver. Chor. Yet, Lord, I know there is with Thee

All saving health, and help for me.

Verse. Then reach Thou forth that hand of Thine,

That pours in oil, as well as wine,

Ver. Chor. And let it work, for I’ll endure

The utmost smart, so Thou wilt cure.

God is all fore-part; for, we never see

Any part backward in the Deity.

God is not only merciful to call

Men to repent, but when He strikes withal.

God scourgeth some severely, some He spares;

But all in smart have less or greater shares.

God’s rod doth watch while men do sleep, and then

The rod doth sleep, while vigilant are men.

God, when for sin He makes His children smart,

His own He acts not, but another’s part;

But when by stripes He saves them, then ’tis known

He comes to play the part that is His own.

God, as He is most holy known,

So He is said to be most one.

Afflictions they most profitable are

To the beholder and the sufferer:

Bettering them both, but by a double strain,

The first by patience, and the last by pain.

Do with me, God, as Thou didst deal with John,

Who writ that heavenly Revelation.

Let me, like him, first cracks of thunder hear,

Then let the harps enchantments stroke mine ear:

Here give me thorns, there, in Thy kingdom, set

Upon my head the golden coronet;

There give me day; but here my dreadful night:

My sackcloth here; but there my stole of white.

God has His whips here to a twofold end:

The bad to punish, and the good t’ amend.

If all transgressions here should have their pay,

What need there then be of a reckoning day?

If God should punish no sin here of men,

His providence who would not question then?

Those saints which God loves best,

The devil tempts not least.

My God! look on me with Thine eye

Of pity, not of scrutiny;

For if Thou dost, Thou then shalt see

Nothing but loathsome sores in me.

O then, for mercy’s sake, behold

These my eruptions manifold,

And heal me with Thy look or touch;

But if Thou wilt not deign so much,

Because I’m odious in Thy sight,

Speak but the word, and cure me quite.

God hears us when we pray, but yet defers

His gifts, to exercise petitioners;

And though a while He makes requesters stay,

With princely hand He’ll recompense delay.

God strikes His Church, but ’tis to this intent,

To make, not mar her, by this punishment;

So where He gives the bitter pills, be sure

’Tis not to poison, but to make thee pure.

God pardons those who do through frailty sin,

But never those that persevere therein.

In numbers, and but these few,

I sing Thy birth, O JESU!

Thou pretty baby, born here,

With sup’rabundant scorn here;

Who for Thy princely port here,

Hadst for Thy place

Of birth a base

Out-stable for Thy court here.

Instead of neat enclosures

Of interwoven osiers,

Instead of fragrant posies

Of daffodils and roses,

Thy cradle, Kingly Stranger,

As Gospel tells,

Was nothing else

But here a homely manger.

But we with silks, not crewels,

With sundry precious jewels,

And lily-work will dress Thee;

And as we dispossess Thee

Of clouts, we’ll make a chamber,

Sweet babe, for Thee

Of ivory,

And plaister’d round with amber.

The Jews they did disdain Thee,

But we will entertain Thee

With glories to await here,

Upon Thy princely state here;

And more for love than pity,

From year to year,

We’ll make Thee, here,

A freeborn of our city.

In the old Scripture I have often read,

The calf without meal ne’er was offered;

To figure to us nothing more than this,

Without the heart lip-labour nothing is.

In prayer the lips ne’er act the winning part,

Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.

Why wore th’ Egyptians jewels in the ear?

But for to teach us, all the grace is there,

When we obey, by acting what we hear.

When once the sin has fully acted been,

Then is the horror of the trespass seen.

Time was upon

The wing, to fly away;

And I call’d on

Him but awhile to stay;

But he’d be gone,

For ought that I could say.

He held out then

A writing, as he went;

And ask’d me, when

False man would be content

To pay again

What God and Nature lent.

An hour-glass,

In which were sands but few,

As he did pass,

He show’d, and told me, too,

Mine end near was;

And so away he flew.

If war or want shall make me grow so poor,

As for to beg my bread from door to door;

Lord! let me never act that beggar’s part,

Who hath Thee in his mouth, not in his heart:

He who asks alms in that so sacred Name,

Without due reverence, plays the cheater’s game.

Thou hast promis’d, Lord, to be

With me in my misery;

Suffer me to be so bold

As to speak, Lord, say and hold.

In the hour of my distress,

When temptations me oppress,

And when I my sins confess,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When I lie within my bed,

Sick in heart and sick in head,

And with doubts discomforted,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the house doth sigh and weep,

And the world is drown’d in sleep,

Yet mine eyes the watch do keep,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the artless doctor sees

No one hope, but of his fees,

And his skill runs on the lees,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When his potion and his pill

Has, or none, or little skill,

Meet for nothing, but to kill;

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the passing bell doth toll,

And the furies in a shoal

Come to fright a parting soul,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tapers now burn blue,

And the comforters are few,

And that number more than true,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the priest his last hath prayed,

And I nod to what is said,

‘Cause my speech is now decayed,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When, God knows, I’m toss’d about,

Either with despair, or doubt;

Yet before the glass be out,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the tempter me pursu’th

With the sins of all my youth,

And half damns me with untruth,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the flames and hellish cries

Fright mine ears, and fright mine eyes,

And all terrors me surprise,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

When the judgment is reveal’d,

And that open’d which was seal’d,

When to Thee I have appeal’d,

Sweet Spirit, comfort me!

Thanksgiving for a former, doth invite

God to bestow a second benefit.

Bellman of night, if I about shall go

For to deny my Master, do thou crow.

Thou stop’dst St. Peter in the midst of sin;

Stay me, by crowing, ere I do begin:

Better it is, premonish’d for to shun

A sin, than fall to weeping when ’tis done.

Adverse and prosperous fortunes both work on

Here, for the righteous man’s salvation;

Be he oppos’d, or be he not withstood,

All serve to th’ augmentation of his good.

Afflictions bring us joy in times to come,

When sins, by stripes, to us grow wearisome.

I’ll come, I’ll creep, though Thou dost threat,

Humbly unto Thy mercy-seat:

When I am there, this then I’ll do,

Give Thee a dart, and dagger too;

Next, when I have my faults confessed,

Naked I’ll show a sighing breast;

Which if that can’t Thy pity woo,

Then let Thy justice do the rest

And strike it through.

Lord, Thou hast given me a cell

Wherein to dwell;

A little house, whose humble roof

Is weather-proof;

Under the spars of which I lie

Both soft and dry;

Where Thou my chamber for to ward

Hast set a guard

Of harmless thoughts, to watch and keep

Me, while I sleep.

Low is my porch, as is my fate,

Both void of state;

And yet the threshold of my door

Is worn by th’ poor,

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

A little bin

Which keeps my little loaf of bread

Unclipt, unflead.

Some brittle sticks of thorn or briar

Make me a fire,

Close by whose living coal I sit,

And glow like it.

Lord, I confess, too, when I dine,

The pulse is Thine,

And all those other bits, that be

There placed by Thee;

The worts, the purslain, and the mess

Of water-cress,

Which of Thy kindness Thou hast sent;

And my content

Makes those, 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,

Spiced to the brink.

Lord, ’tis Thy plenty-dropping hand,

That soils my land;

And giv’st me for my bushel sown,

Twice ten for one.

Thou mak’st my teeming hen to lay

Her egg each day;

Besides my healthful ewes to bear

Me twins each year,

The while the conduits of my kine

Run cream for wine.

All these, and better Thou dost send

Me, to this end,

That I should render, for my part,

A thankful heart;

Which, fired with incense, I resign,

As wholly Thine;

But the acceptance, that must be,

My Christ, by Thee.

Make, make me Thine, my gracious God,

Or with Thy staff, or with Thy rod;

And be the blow, too, what it will,

Lord, I will kiss it, though it kill:

Beat me, bruise me, rack me, rend me,

Yet, in torments, I’ll commend Thee;

Examine me with fire, and prove me

To the full, yet I will love Thee;

Nor shall Thou give so deep a wound

But I as patient will be found.

Lord, do not beat me,

Since I do sob and cry,

And swoon away to die,

Ere Thou dost threat me.

Lord, do not scourge me,

If I by lies and oaths

Have soil’d myself or clothes,

But rather purge me.

Happy’s that man to whom God gives

A stock of goods, whereby he lives

Near to the wishes of his heart:

No man is blest through every part.

Can I not come to Thee, my God, for these

So very many meeting hindrances,

That slack my pace, but yet not make me stay?

Who slowly goes, rids, in the end, his way.

Clear Thou my paths, or shorten Thou my miles,

Remove the bars, or lift me o’er the stiles;

Since rough the way is, help me when I call,

And take me up; or else prevent the fall.

I ken my home, and it affords some ease

To see far off the smoking villages.

Fain would I rest, yet covet not to die

For fear of future biting penury:

No, no, my God, Thou know’st my wishes be

To leave this life, not loving it, but Thee.

Thou bid’st me come; I cannot come; for why?

Thou dwell’st aloft, and I want wings to fly.

To mount my soul, she must have pinions given;

For ’tis no easy way from earth to heaven.

Thou bid’st me come away,

And I’ll no longer stay

Than for to shed some tears

For faults of former years,

And to repent some crimes

Done in the present times:

And next, to take a bit

Of bread, and wine with it:

To don my robes of love,

Fit for the place above;

To gird my loins about

With charity throughout;

And so to travel hence

With feet of innocence:

These done, I’ll only cry

God mercy, and so die.

God will have all, or none; serve Him, or fall

Down before Baal, Bel, or Belial:

Either be hot or cold: God doth despise,

Abhor, and spew out all neutralities.

Whatever comes, let’s be content withal:

Among God’s blessings there is no one small.

Through all the night

Thou dost me fright,

And hold’st mine eyes from sleeping;

And day by day,

My cup can say

My wine is mix’d with weeping.

Thou dost my bread

With ashes knead

Each evening and each morrow;

Mine eye and ear

Do see and hear

The coming in of sorrow.

Thy scourge of steel,

Ah me! I feel

Upon me beating ever:

While my sick heart

With dismal smart

Is disacquainted never.

Long, long, I’m sure,

This can’t endure,

But in short time ’twill please Thee,

My gentle God,

To burn the rod,

Or strike so as to ease me.

Abundant plagues I late have had,

Yet none of these have made me sad:

For why? My Saviour with the sense

Of suff’ring gives me patience.

O years! and age! farewell:

Behold, I go

Where I do know

Infinity to dwell.

And these mine eyes shall see

All times, how they

Are lost i’ th’ sea

Of vast eternity.

Where never moon shall sway

The stars; but she

And night shall be

Drown’d in one endless day.

Go, pretty child, and bear this flower

Unto thy little Saviour;

And tell Him, by that bud now blown,

He is the Rose of Sharon known.

When thou hast said so, stick it there

Upon His bib or stomacher;

And tell Him, for good handsel too,

That thou hast brought a whistle new,

Made of a clean strait oaten reed,

To charm His cries at time of need.

Tell Him, for coral, thou hast none,

But if thou hadst, He should have one;

But poor thou art, and known to be

Even as moneyless as He.

Lastly, if thou canst win a kiss

From those mellifluous lips of His;

Then never take a second on,

To spoil the first impression.

Let others look for pearl and gold,

Tissues, or tabbies manifold:

One only lock of that sweet hay

Whereon the blessed baby lay,

Or one poor swaddling-clout, shall be

The richest New–Year’s gift to me.

If anything delight me for to print

My book, ’tis this: that Thou, my God, art in’t.

How am I bound to Two! God, who doth give

The mind; the king, the means whereby I live.

Where God is merry, there write down thy fears:

What He with laughter speaks, hear thou with tears.

Give me honours! what are these,

But the pleasing hindrances?

Stiles, and stops, and stays that come

In the way ‘twixt me and home;

Clear the walk, and then shall I

To my heaven less run than fly.

To a love-feast we both invited are:

The figur’d damask, or pure diaper,

Over the golden altar now is spread,

With bread, and wine, and vessels furnished;

The sacred towel and the holy ewer

Are ready by, to make the guests all pure:

Let’s go, my Alma; yet, ere we receive,

Fit, fit it is we have our parasceve.

Who to that sweet bread unprepar’d doth come,

Better be starv’d, than but to taste one crumb.

God gives not only corn for need,

But likewise sup’rabundant seed;

Bread for our service, bread for show,

Meat for our meals, and fragments too:

He gives not poorly, taking some

Between the finger and the thumb;

But for our glut and for our store,

Fine flour press’d down, and running o’er.

Although we cannot turn the fervent fit

Of sin, we must strive ‘gainst the stream of it;

And howsoe’er we have the conquest miss’d,

’Tis for our glory that we did resist.

Christ, He requires still, wheresoe’er He comes

To feed or lodge, to have the best of rooms:

Give Him the choice; grant Him the nobler part

Of all the house: the best of all’s the heart.

God could have made all rich, or all men poor;

But why He did not, let me tell wherefore:

Had all been rich, where then had patience been?

Had all been poor, who had His bounty seen?

To seek of God more than we well can find,

Argues a strong distemper of the mind.

Give, if thou canst, an alms; if not, afford,

Instead of that, a sweet and gentle word:

God crowns our goodness wheresoe’er He sees,

On our part, wanting all abilities.

Can I not sin, but thou wilt be

My private protonotary?

Can I not woo thee to pass by

A short and sweet iniquity?

I’ll cast a mist and cloud upon

My delicate transgression

So utter dark as that no eye

Shall see the hugg’d impiety;

Gifts blind the wise, and bribes do please

And wind all other witnesses;

And wilt not thou with gold be ti’d

To lay thy pen and ink aside?

That in the mirk and tongueless night

Wanton I may, and thou not write?

It will not be. And, therefore, now,

For times to come I’ll make this vow,

From aberrations to live free;

So I’ll not fear the Judge or thee.

Lord, I confess, that Thou alone art able

To purify this my Augean stable:

Be the seas water, and the land all soap,

Yet if Thy blood not wash me, there’s no hope.

God is all sufferance here; here He doth show

No arrow nockt, only a stringless bow:

His arrows fly, and all His stones are hurl’d

Against the wicked in another world.

I dreamt, last night, Thou didst transfuse

Oil from Thy jar into my cruse;

And pouring still Thy wealthy store,

The vessel full did then run o’er;

Methought I did Thy bounty chide

To see the waste; but ’twas replied

By Thee, dear God, God gives man seed

Ofttimes for waste, as for his need.

Then I could say that house is bare

That has not bread and some to spare.

God’s bounty, that ebbs less and less

As men do wane in thankfulness.

Night hath no wings to him that cannot sleep,

And time seems then not for to fly, but creep;

Slowly her chariot drives, as if that she

Had broke her wheel, or crack’d her axletree.

Just so it is with me, who, list’ning, pray

The winds to blow the tedious night away,

That I might see the cheerful, peeping day.

Sick is my heart! O Saviour! do Thou please

To make my bed soft in my sicknesses:

Lighten my candle, so that I beneath

Sleep not for ever in the vaults of death;

Let me Thy voice betimes i’ th’ morning hear:

Call, and I’ll come; say Thou the when, and where.

Draw me but first, and after Thee I’ll run

And make no one stop till my race be done.

I do believe that die I must,

And be return’d from out my dust:

I do believe that when I rise,

Christ I shall see, with these same eyes:

I do believe that I must come,

With others, to the dreadful doom:

I do believe the bad must go

From thence, to everlasting woe:

I do believe the good, and I,

Shall live with Him eternally:

I do believe I shall inherit

Heaven, by Christ’s mercies, not my merit.

I do believe the One in Three,

And Three in perfect unity:

Lastly, that JESUS is a deed

Of gift from God: and here’s my creed.

Temptations hurt not, though they have access:

Satan o’ercomes none, but by willingness.

When a man’s faith is frozen up, as dead;

Then is the lamp and oil extinguished.

Sorrows our portion are: ere hence we go,

Crosses we must have; or, hereafter woe.

A man’s transgressions God does then remit,

When man He makes a penitent for it.

O thou, the wonder of all days!

O paragon, and pearl of praise!

O virgin-martyr, ever blest

Above the rest

Of all the maiden train! We come,

And bring fresh strewings to thy tomb.

Thus, thus, and thus we compass round

Thy harmless and unhaunted ground;

And as we sing thy dirge, we will

The daffodil

And other flowers lay upon

The altar of our love, thy stone.

Thou wonder of all maids, liest here.

Of daughters all the dearest dear;

The eye of virgins; nay, the queen

Of this smooth green,

And all sweet meads; from whence we get

The primrose and the violet.

Too soon, too dear did Jephthah buy,

By thy sad loss, our liberty:

His was the bond and cov’nant, yet

Thou paid’st the debt:

Lamented maid! he won the day,

But for the conquest thou didst pay.

Thy father brought with him along

The olive branch and victor’s song:

He slew the Ammonites, we know,

But to thy woe;

And in the purchase of our peace,

The cure was worse than the disease.

For which obedient zeal of thine,

We offer here, before thy shrine,

Our sighs for storax, tears for wine;

And to make fine

And fresh thy hearse-cloth, we will, here,

Four times bestrew thee ev’ry year.

Receive, for this thy praise, our tears:

Receive this offering of our hairs:

Receive these crystal vials fill’d

With tears distill’d

From teeming eyes; to these we bring,

Each maid, her silver filleting,

To gild thy tomb; besides, these cauls,

These laces, ribbons, and these falls,

These veils, wherewith we use to hide

The bashful bride,

When we conduct her to her groom:

And all we lay upon thy tomb.

No more, no more, since thou art dead,

Shall we e’er bring coy brides to bed;

No more, at yearly festivals

We cowslip balls

Or chains of columbines shall make

For this or that occasion’s sake.

No, no; our maiden pleasures be

Wrapp’d in the winding-sheet with thee:

’Tis we are dead, though not i’ th’ grave:

Or, if we have

One seed of life left, ’tis to keep

A Lent for thee, to fast and weep.

Sleep in thy peace, thy bed of spice,

And make this place all paradise:

May sweets grow here: and smoke from hence

Fat frankincense:

Let balm and cassia send their scent

From out thy maiden-monument.

May no wolf howl, or screech-owl stir

A wing about thy sepulchre!

No boisterous winds, or storms, come hither

To starve or wither

Thy soft sweet earth! but, like a spring,

Love keep it ever flourishing.

May all shy maids, at wonted hours,

Come forth to strew thy tomb with flow’rs:

May virgins, when they come to mourn,

Male-incense burn

Upon thine altar! then return,

And leave thee sleeping in thy urn.

What though my harp and viol be

Both hung upon the willow tree?

What though my bed be now my grave,

And for my house I darkness have?

What though my healthful days are fled,

And I lie number’d with the dead?

Yet I have hope, by Thy great power,

To spring; though now a wither’d flower.

Shame checks our first attempts; but then ’tis prov’d

Sins first dislik’d are after that belov’d.

Sin leads the way, but as it goes, it feels

The following plague still treading on his heels.

God, when He takes my goods and chattels hence,

Gives me a portion, giving patience:

What is in God is God; if so it be

He patience gives, He gives Himself to me.

What here we hope for, we shall once inherit;

By faith we all walk here, not by the Spirit.

Humble we must be, if to heaven we go:

High is the roof there; but the gate is low:

Whene’er thou speak’st, look with a lowly eye:

Grace is increased by humility.

Our present tears here, not our present laughter,

Are but the handsels of our joys hereafter.

After true sorrow for our sins, our strife

Must last with Satan to the end of life.

Dear God,

If Thy smart rod

Here did not make me sorry,

I should not be

With Thine or Thee

In Thy eternal glory.

But since

Thou didst convince

My sins by gently striking;

Add still to those

First stripes new blows,

According to Thy liking.

Fear me,

Or scourging tear me;

That thus from vices driven,

I may from hell

Fly up to dwell

With Thee and Thine in heaven.

What God gives, and what we take,

’Tis a gift for Christ, His sake:

Be the meal of beans and peas,

God be thanked for those and these:

Have we flesh, or have we fish,

All are fragments from His dish.

He His Church save, and the king;

And our peace here, like a spring,

Make it ever flourishing.

Honour thy parents; but good manners call

Thee to adore thy God the first of all.

Here a little child I stand

Heaving up my either hand;

Cold as paddocks though they be,

Here I lift them up to Thee,

For a benison to fall

On our meat and on us all. Amen.

Chor. What sweeter music can we bring,

Than a carol for to sing

The birth of this our heavenly King?

Awake the voice! awake the string!

Heart, ear, and eye, and everything

Awake! the while the active finger

Runs division with the singer.

1. Dark and dull night, fly hence away

And give the honour to this day

That sees December turn’d to May.

2. If we may ask the reason, say

The why and wherefore all things here

Seem like the spring-time of the year.

3. Why does the chilling winter’s morn

Smile like a field beset with corn?

Or smell like to a mead new shorn,

Thus, on the sudden?

4. Come and see

The cause, why things thus fragrant be:

’Tis He is born, whose quick’ning birth

Gives life and lustre, public mirth,

To heaven and the under-earth.

Chor. We see Him come, and know Him ours,

Who, with His sunshine and His showers,

Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

1. The darling of the world is come,

And fit it is we find a room

To welcome Him.

2. The nobler part

Of all the house here is the heart,

Chor. Which we will give Him; and bequeath

This holly and this ivy wreath,

To do Him honour; who’s our King,

And Lord of all this revelling.

1. Prepare for songs; He’s come, He’s come;

And be it sin here to be dumb,

And not with lutes to fill the room.

2. Cast holy water all about,

And have a care no fire goes out,

But ‘cense the porch and place throughout.

3. The altars all on fire be;

The storax fries; and ye may see

How heart and hand do all agree

To make things sweet. Chor. Yet all less sweet than He.

4. Bring Him along, most pious priest,

And tell us then, whenas thou seest

His gently-gliding, dove-like eyes,

And hear’st His whimpering and His cries;

How can’st thou this Babe circumcise?

5. Ye must not be more pitiful than wise;

For, now unless ye see Him bleed,

Which makes the bapti’m, ’tis decreed

The birth is fruitless. Chor. Then the work God speed.

1. Touch gently, gently touch; and here

Spring tulips up through all the year;

And from His sacred blood, here shed,

May roses grow to crown His own dear head.

Chor. Back, back again; each thing is done

With zeal alike, as ’twas begun;

Now singing, homeward let us carry

The Babe unto His mother Mary;

And when we have the Child commended

To her warm bosom, then our rites are ended.

1. Hence, hence profane, and none appear

With anything unhallowed here;

No jot of leaven must be found

Conceal’d in this most holy ground.

2. What is corrupt, or sour’d with sin,

Leave that without, then enter in;

Chor. But let no Christmas mirth begin

Before ye purge and circumcise

Your hearts, and hands, lips, ears, and eyes.

3. Then, like a perfum’d altar, see

That all things sweet and clean may be:

For here’s a Babe that, like a bride,

Will blush to death if ought be spi’d

Ill-scenting, or unpurifi’d.

Chor. The room is ‘cens’d: help, help t’ invoke

Heaven to come down, the while we choke

The temple with a cloud of smoke.

4. Come then, and gently touch the birth

Of Him, who’s Lord of Heaven and Earth:

5. And softly handle Him; y’ad need,

Because the pretty Babe does bleed.

Poor pitied Child! who from Thy stall

Bring’st, in Thy blood, a balm that shall

Be the best New–Year’s gift to all.

1. Let’s bless the Babe: and, as we sing

His praise, so let us bless the King.

Chor. Long may He live till He hath told

His New–Years trebled to His old:

And when that’s done, to reaspire

A new-born Phœnix from His own chaste fire.

When I shall sin, pardon my trespass here;

For once in hell, none knows remission there.

Sin once reached up to God’s eternal sphere,

And was committed, not remitted there.

Evil no nature hath; the loss of good

Is that which gives to sin a livelihood.

1. Tell us, thou clear and heavenly tongue,

Where is the Babe but lately sprung?

Lies he the lily-banks among?

2. Or say, if this new Birth of ours

Sleeps, laid within some ark of flowers,

Spangled with dew-light; thou canst clear

All doubts, and manifest the where.

3. Declare to us, bright star, if we shall seek

Him in the morning’s blushing cheek,

Or search the beds of spices through,

To find him out.

Star. No, this ye need not do;

But only come and see Him rest

A Princely Babe in’s mother’s breast.

Chor. He’s seen, He’s seen! why then a round,

Let’s kiss the sweet and holy ground;

And all rejoice that we have found

A King before conception crown’d.

4. Come then, come then, and let us bring

Unto our pretty Twelfth-tide King,

Each one his several offering;

Chor. And when night comes, we’ll give Him wassailing;

And that His treble honours may be seen,

We’ll choose Him King, and make His mother Queen.

With golden censers, and with incense, here

Before Thy virgin-altar I appear,

To pay Thee that I owe, since what I see

In, or without, all, all belongs to Thee.

Where shall I now begin to make, for one

Least loan of Thine, half restitution?

Alas! I cannot pay a jot; therefore

I’ll kiss the tally, and confess the score.

Ten thousand talents lent me, Thou dost write;

’Tis true, my God, but I can’t pay one mite.

I’ll hope no more

For things that will not come;

And if they do, they prove but cumbersome.

Wealth brings much woe;

And, since it fortunes so,

’Tis better to be poor

Than so t’ abound

As to be drown’d

Or overwhelm’d with store.

Pale care, avaunt!

I’ll learn to be content

With that small stock Thy bounty gave or lent.

What may conduce

To my most healthful use,

Almighty God, me grant;

But that, or this,

That hurtful is,

Deny Thy suppliant.

Gold I have none, but I present my need,

O Thou, that crown’st the will, where wants the deed.

Where rams are wanting, or large bullocks’ thighs,

There a poor lamb’s a plenteous sacrifice.

Take then his vows, who, if he had it, would

Devote to Thee both incense, myrrh and gold

Upon an altar rear’d by him, and crown’d

Both with the ruby, pearl, and diamond.

Permit mine eyes to see

Part, or the whole of Thee,

O happy place!

Where all have grace,

And garlands shar’d,

For their reward;

Where each chaste soul

In long white stole,

And palms in hand,

Do ravish’d stand;

So in a ring,

The praises sing

Of Three in One

That fill the Throne;

While harps and viols then

To voices say, Amen.

Last night I drew up mine account,

And found my debits to amount

To such a height, as for to tell

How I should pay ‘s impossible.

Well, this I’ll do: my mighty score

Thy mercy-seat I’ll lay before;

But therewithal I’ll bring the band

Which, in full force, did daring stand

Till my Redeemer, on the tree,

Made void for millions, as for me.

Then, if thou bidst me pay, or go

Unto the prison, I’ll say, no;

Christ having paid, I nothing owe:

For, this is sure, the debt is dead

By law, the bond once cancelled.

God makes not good men wantons, but doth bring

Them to the field, and, there, to skirmishing.

With trials those, with terrors these He proves,

And hazards those most whom the most He loves;

For Sceva, darts; for Cocles, dangers; thus

He finds a fire for mighty Mutius;

Death for stout Cato; and besides all these,

A poison, too, He has for Socrates;

Torments for high Attilius; and, with want,

Brings in Fabricius for a combatant:

But bastard-slips, and such as He dislikes,

He never brings them once to th’ push of pikes.

Play their offensive and defensive parts,

Till they be hid o’er with a wood of darts.

When man is punish’d, he is plagued still,

Not for the fault of nature, but of will.

Open thy gates

To him, who weeping waits,

And might come in,

But that held back by sin.

Let mercy be

So kind to set me free,

And I will straight

Come in, or force the gate.

All I have lost that could be rapt from me;

And fare it well: yet, Herrick, if so be

Thy dearest Saviour renders thee but one

Smile, that one smile’s full restitution.

Pardon me, God, once more I Thee entreat,

That I have placed Thee in so mean a seat

Where round about Thou seest but all things vain,

Uncircumcis’d, unseason’d and profane.

But as Heaven’s public and immortal eye

Looks on the filth, but is not soil’d thereby,

So Thou, my God, may’st on this impure look,

But take no tincture from my sinful book:

Let but one beam of glory on it shine,

And that will make me and my work divine.

Lord, I am like to mistletoe,

Which has no root, and cannot grow

Or prosper but by that same tree

It clings about; so I by Thee.

What need I then to fear at all,

So long as I about Thee crawl?

But if that tree should fall and die,

Tumble shall heav’n, and down will I.

I would to God that mine old age might have

Before my last, but here a living grave,

Some one poor almshouse; there to lie, or stir

Ghostlike, as in my meaner sepulchre;

A little piggin and a pipkin by,

To hold things fitting my necessity,

Which rightly used, both in their time and place,

Might me excite to fore and after-grace.

Thy Cross, my Christ, fix’d ‘fore mine eyes should be,

Not to adore that, but to worship Thee.

So, here the remnant of my days I’d spend,

Reading Thy Bible, and my Book; so end.

When we ‘gainst Satan stoutly fight, the more

He tears and tugs us than he did before;

Neglecting once to cast a frown on those

Whom ease makes his without the help of blows.

Hell is no other but a soundless pit,

Where no one beam of comfort peeps in it.

When I a ship see on the seas,

Cuff’d with those wat’ry savages,

And therewithal behold it hath

In all that way no beaten path,

Then, with a wonder, I confess

Thou art our way i’ th’ wilderness;

And while we blunder in the dark,

Thou art our candle there, or spark.

The less our sorrows here and suff’rings cease,

The more our crowns of glory there increase.

Hell is the place where whipping-cheer abounds,

But no one jailer there to wash the wounds.

Along the dark and silent night,

With my lantern and my light,

And the tinkling of my bell,

Thus I walk, and this I tell:

Death and dreadfulness call on

To the gen’ral session,

To whose dismal bar we there

All accounts must come to clear.

Scores of sins w’ave made here many,

Wip’d out few, God knows, if any.

Rise, ye debtors, then, and fall

To make payment while I call.

Ponder this, when I am gone;

By the clock ’tis almost one.

When winds and seas do rage

And threaten to undo me,

Thou dost, their wrath assuage

If I but call unto Thee.

A mighty storm last night

Did seek my soul to swallow,

But by the peep of light

A gentle calm did follow.

What need I then despair,

Though ills stand round about me;

Since mischiefs neither dare

To bark or bite without Thee?

Come pity us, all ye who see

Our harps hung on the willow tree:

Come pity us, ye passers-by

Who see or hear poor widows cry:

Come pity us; and bring your ears

And eyes to pity widows’ tears.

Chor. And when you are come hither

Then we will keep

A fast, and weep

Our eyes out altogether.

For Tabitha, who dead lies here,

Clean washed, and laid out for the bier,

O modest matrons, weep and wail!

For now the corn and wine must fail:

The basket and the bin of bread,

Wherewith so many souls were fed,

Chor. Stand empty here for ever:

And ah! the poor

At thy worn door

Shall be relieved never.

Woe worth the time, woe worth the day

That ‘reaved us of thee, Tabitha!

For we have lost with thee the meal,

The bits, the morsels, and the deal

Of gentle paste and yielding dough

That thou on widows did’st bestow.

Chor. All’s gone, and death hath taken

Away from us

Our maundy; thus

Thy widows stand forsaken.

Ah, Dorcas, Dorcas! now adieu

We bid the cruse and pannier too:

Ay, and the flesh, for and the fish

Doled to us in that lordly dish.

We take our leaves now of the loom

From whence the housewives’ cloth did come:

Chor. The web affords now nothing;

Thou being dead,

The worsted thread

Is cut, that made us clothing.

Farewell the flax and reaming wool

With which thy house was plentiful;

Farewell the coats, the garments, and

The sheets, the rugs, made by thy hand;

Farewell thy fire and thy light

That ne’er went out by day or night:

Chor. No, or thy zeal so speedy,

That found a way

By peep of day,

To feed and cloth the needy.

But, ah, alas! the almond bough

And olive branch is withered now.

The wine press now is ta’en from us,

The saffron and the calamus.

The spice and spikenard hence is gone,

The storax and the cinnamon.

Chor. The carol of our gladness

Has taken wing,

And our late spring

Of mirth is turned to sadness.

How wise wast thou in all thy ways!

How worthy of respect and praise!

How matron-like didst thou go dressed!

How soberly above the rest

Of those that prank it with their plumes,

And jet it with their choice perfumes!

Chor. Thy vestures were not flowing:

Nor did the street

Accuse thy feet

Of mincing in their going.

And though thou here li’st dead, we see

A deal of beauty yet in thee.

How sweetly shows thy smiling face,

Thy lips with all-diffused grace!

Thy hands, though cold, yet spotless white,

And comely as the chrysolite!

Chor. Thy belly like a hill is,

Or as a neat

Clean heap of wheat,

All set about with lilies.

Sleep with thy beauties here, while we

Will show these garments made by thee;

These were the coats, in these are read

The monuments of Dorcas dead.

These were thy acts, and thou shall have

These hung as honours o’er thy grave;

Chor. And after us, distressed,

Should fame be dumb,

Thy very tomb

Would cry out, Thou art blessed.

Rapine has yet took nought from me;

But if it please my God I be

Brought at the last to th’ utmost bit,

God make me thankful still for it.

I have been grateful for my store:

Let me say grace when there’s no more.

That little pretty bleeding part

Of foreskin send to me:

And I’ll return a bleeding heart

For New–Year’s gift to Thee.

Rich is the gem that Thou did’st send,

Mine’s faulty too and small;

But yet this gift Thou wilt commend

Because I send Thee all.

Let not that day God’s friends and servants scare;

The bench is then their place, and not the bar.

The sup’rabundance of my store,

That is the portion of the poor:

Wheat, barley, rye, or oats; what is’t

But He takes toll of? all the grist.

Two raiments have I: Christ then makes

This law; that He and I part stakes.

Or have I two loaves, then I use

The poor to cut, and I to choose.

In this world, the isle of dreams,

While we sit by sorrow’s streams,

Tears and terrors are our themes

Reciting:

But when once from hence we fly,

More and more approaching nigh

Unto young Eternity

Uniting:

In that whiter island, where

Things are evermore sincere;

Candour here, and lustre there

Delighting:

There no monstrous fancies shall

Out of hell an horror call,

To create, or cause at all,

Affrighting.

There in calm and cooling sleep

We our eyes shall never steep;

But eternal watch shall keep,

Attending

Pleasures, such as shall pursue

Me immortalised, and you;

And fresh joys, as never to

Have ending.

I crawl, I creep; my Christ, I come

To Thee for curing balsamum:

Thou hast, nay more, Thou art the tree

Affording salve of sovereignty.

My mouth I’ll lay unto Thy wound

Bleeding, that no blood touch the ground:

For, rather than one drop shall fall

To waste, my JESU, I’ll take all.

God! to my little meal and oil

Add but a bit of flesh to boil:

And Thou my pipkinet shalt see,

Give a wave-off’ring unto Thee.

God He refuseth no man, but makes way

For all that now come or hereafter may.

God’s grace deserves here to be daily fed

That, thus increased, it might be perfected.

To him who longs unto his Christ to go,

Celerity even itself is slow.

God had but one Son free from sin; but none

Of all His sons free from correction.

God, as He’s potent, so He’s likewise known

To give us more than hope can fix upon.

Science in God is known to be

A substance, not a quality.

Christ, I have read, did to His chaplains say,

Sending them forth, Salute no man by th’ way:

Not that He taught His ministers to be

Unsmooth or sour to all civility,

But to instruct them to avoid all snares

Of tardidation in the Lord’s affairs.

Manners are good; but till His errand ends,

Salute we must nor strangers, kin, or friends.

Lasciviousness is known to be

The sister to saturity.

God from our eyes all tears hereafter wipes,

And gives His children kisses then, not stripes.

In vain our labours are whatsoe’er they be,

Unless God gives the benedicite.

God is His name of nature; but that word

Implies His power when He’s called the Lord.

God hides from man the reck’ning day, that he

May fear it ever for uncertainty;

That being ignorant of that one, he may

Expect the coming of it every day.

Angels are called gods; yet of them, none

Are gods but by participation:

As just men are entitled gods, yet none

Are gods of them but by adoption.

The longer thread of life we spin,

The more occasion still to sin.

The tears of saints more sweet by far

Than all the songs of sinners are.

That manna, which God on His people cast,

Fitted itself to ev’ry feeder’s taste.

True rev’rence is, as Cassiodore doth prove,

The fear of God commix’d with cleanly love.