All Poems

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The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad

© Robert Herrick

Dull to myself, and almost dead to these,
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since every thing
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing.

Night Piece, to Julia

© Robert Herrick

Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting stars attend thee,
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like sparks of fire befriend thee.

An Ode to Master Endymion Porter, Upon His Brother's Death

© Robert Herrick

Not all thy flushing suns are set,
Herrick, as yet ;
Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere
Frown and look sullen ev'rywhere.

An Ode Of The Birth Of Our Saviour

© Robert Herrick

In numbers, and but these few,
I sing thy birth, oh JESU!
Thou pretty Baby, born here,
With sup'rabundant scorn here;

His Meditation Upon Death

© Robert Herrick

BE those few hours, which I have yet to spend,
Blest with the meditation of my end;
Though they be few in number, I'm content;
If otherwise, I stand indifferent,

To Be Merry

© Robert Herrick

Let's now take our time,
While we're in our prime,
And old, old age is afar off;
For the evil, evil days
Will come on apace,
Before we can be aware of.

His Return To London

© Robert Herrick

From the dull confines of the drooping west,
To see the day spring from the pregnant east,
Ravish'd in spirit, I come, nay more, I fly
To thee, blest place of my nativity!

Nothing Free-cost

© Robert Herrick

Nothing comes free-cost here; Jove will not let
His gifts go from him, if not bought with sweat.

Man's Dying-place Uncertain

© Robert Herrick

Man knows where first he ships himself; but he
Never can tell where shall his landing be.

Epitaph upon a Child that died

© Robert Herrick

HERE she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.

Upon A Child

© Robert Herrick

Here a pretty baby lies
Sung asleep with lullabies;
Pray be silent, and not stir
Th' easy earth that covers her.

Miseries

© Robert Herrick

Though hourly comforts from the gods we see,
No life is yet life-proof from misery.

Upon The Loss Of His Mistresses

© Robert Herrick

I have lost, and lately, these
Many dainty mistresses:--
Stately Julia, prime of all;
Sapho next, a principal:

To Primroses Filled With Morning Dew

© Robert Herrick

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? can tears
Speak grief in you,
Who were but born
just as the modest morn

Departure of the Good Daemon

What can I do in poetry,
Now the good spirit's gone from me?
Why, nothing now but lonely sit
And over-read what I have writ.

To Death

Thou bidst me come away,
And I'll no longer stay,
Than for to shed some tears
For faults of former years;

The Widows' Tears; Or, Dirge Of Dorcas

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;

To the Western Wind

SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna's lip a kiss,
And fan her wanton hair:

A Ring Presented to Julia

Julia, I bring
To thee this Ring.
Made for thy finger fit;
To shew by this,
That our love is
(Or sho'd be) like to it.

Loss From The Least

Great men by small means oft are overthrown;
He's lord of thy life, who contemns his own.