Robert Herrick; a biographical & critical study

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J. Lane, 1910 - 343 pages
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Page 191 - Still to be neat, still to be drest, As you were going to a feast ; Still to be powdered, still perfumed : Lady, it is to be presumed, Though art's hid causes are not found, All is not sweet, all is not sound. Give me a look, give me a face, That makes simplicity a grace : Robes loosely flowing, hair as free : Such sweet neglect more taketh me, Than all the adulteries of art ; They strike mine eyes, but not my heart.
Page 261 - We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a Spring ! As quick a growth to meet decay As you, or any thing. We die, As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain ; Or as the pearls of morning's dew Ne'er to be found again.
Page 239 - Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee, And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
Page 255 - Come, my Corinna, come ; and, coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimm'd with trees ; see how Devotion gives each house a bough, Or branch ; each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white thorn neatly interwove ; As if here were those cooler shades of love.
Page 324 - Ah Ben ! Say how or .when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun ; Where we such clusters had, As made us nobly wild, not mad? And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
Page 305 - 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!
Page 245 - Good morrow to each maid That will with flowers the tomb bestrew Wherein my love is laid. Ah, woe is me, woe, woe is me, Alack, and welladay! For pity, sir, find out that bee Which bore my love away. I'll seek him in your bonnet brave; I'll seek him in your eyes; Nay, now I think they've made his grave In the bed of strawberries.
Page 302 - A Hymn to God, the Father Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I begun, Which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin, through which I run, And do run still, though still I do deplore? When Thou hast done, Thou hast not done, 5 For I have more.
Page 227 - SISTER, awake ! close not your eyes ! The day her light discloses, And the bright morning doth arise Out of her bed of roses. See the clear sun, the world's bright eye, In at our window peeping: Lo, how he blusheth to espy Us idle wenches sleeping ! Therefore awake ! make haste, I say, And let us, without staying, All in our gowns of green so gay Into the Park a-maying...
Page 173 - My love is as a fever, longing still For that which longer nurseth the disease, Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, Th' uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, Angry that his prescriptions are not kept. Hath left me, and I desperate now approve Desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, And...

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