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.

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.

Dark and dull night, fly hence away,
And give the honor to this day,
That sees December turned to May.

If we may ask the reason, say
The why, and wherefore, all things here
Seem like the springtime of the year?

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?

Come and see
The cause, why things thus fragrant be:
’Tis He is born, whose quickening birth
Gives life and luster, public mirth,
To heaven, and the under-earth.

We see Him come, and know Him ours,
Who, with His sunshine, and His showers,
Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

The darling of the world is come,
And fit it is, we find a room
To welcome Him. The nobler part
Of all the house here, is the heart,

Which we will give Him; and bequeath
This holly, and this ivy wreath,
To do Him honor; who’s our King,
And Lord of all this reveling.

By those soft tods of wool
With which the air is full;
By all those tinctures there,
That paint the hemisphere;
By dews and drizzling rain
That swell the golden grain;
By all those sweets that be
I’ the flowery nunnery;
By silent nights, and the
Three forms of Hecate;
By all aspects that bless
The sober sorceress,
While juice she strains, and pith
To make her philters with;
By time that hastens on
Things to perfection;
And by yourself, the best
Conjurement of the rest:
O my Electra! be
In love with none but me.

When I thy singing next shall hear,
I’ll wish I might turn all to ear,
To drink in notes and numbers such
As blessed souls can’t hear too much;
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranc’d and lost confusedly,
And by thy music stricken mute,
Die and be turn’d into a lute.

You are a tulip seen to-day,
But, dearest, of so short a stay
That where you grew scarce man can say.

You are a lovely July-flower,
Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower
Will force you hence, and in an hour.

You are a sparkling rose i’ th’ bud,
Yet lost ere that chaste flesh and blood
Can show where you or grew or stood.

You are a full-spread, fair-set vine,
And can with tendrils love entwine,
Yet dried ere you distil your wine.

You are like balm enclosèd well
In amber or some crystal shell,
Yet lost ere you transfuse your smell.

You are a dainty violet,
Yet wither’d ere you can be set
Within the ******’s coronet.

You are the queen all flowers among;
But die you must, fair maid, ere long,
As he, the maker of this song.

Here a solemn fast we keep,
While all beauty lies asleep;
Hushed be all things, no noise here,
But the toning of a tear,
Or the sigh of such as bring
Cowslips for her covering.

In numbers, and but these few,
I sing Thy birth, Oh, 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 inclosures
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 cruels),
With sundry precious jewels,
And lily-work will dress Thee
Of clouts; we’ll make a chamber,
          Sweet Babe, for Thee,
          Of ivory,
And plastered 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 free-born of our city.

Wassail the trees, that they may bear
You many a plum, and many a pear:
For more or less fruits they will bring,
As you do give them wassailing.

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

How can I choose but love and follow her
Whose shadow smells like milder pomander?
How can I choose but kiss her, whence does come
The storax, spikenard, myrrh, and laudanum?

Wash your hands, or else the fire
Will not tind to your desire;
Unwashed hands, ye maidens, know,
Dead the fire, though ye blow.

She by the river sat, and sitting there,
She wept, and made it deeper by a tear.

Julia, I bring
          To thee this ring,
Made for thy finger fit;
          To show by this
          That our love is
(Or should be) like to it.

          Close though it be
          The joint is free;
So, when love’s yoke is on,
          It must not gall,
          Or fret at all
With hard oppression.

          But it must play
          Still either way,
And be, too, such a yoke
          As not too wide
          To overslide,
Or be so straight to choke.

          So we who bear
          This beam must rear
Ourselves to such a height
          As that the stay
          Of either may
Create the burden light.

          And as this round
          Is nowhere found
To flaw, or else to sever:
          So let our love
          As endless prove,
And pure as gold for ever.

When I behold a forest spread
With silken trees upon thy head,
And when I see that other dress
Of flowers set in comeliness;
When I behold another grace
In the ascent of curious lace,
Which like a pinnacle doth show
The top, and the top-gallant too.
Then, when I see thy tresses bound
Into an oval, square, or round,
And knit in knots far more than I
Can tell by tongue, or true-love tie;
Next, when those lawny films I see
Play with a wild civility,
And all those airy silks to flow,
Alluring me, and tempting so;
I must confess, mine eye and heart
Dotes less on Nature than on Art.

Come, bring with a noise,
     My merry, merry boys,
The Christmas Log to the firing;
     While my good Dame, she
     Bids ye all be free;
And drink to your heart’s desiring.

     With the last year’s brand
     Light the new block, and
For good success in his spending,
     On your Psaltries play,
     That sweet luck may
Come while the log is a-tinding.

     Drink now the strong beer,
     Cut the white loaf here,
The while the meat is a-shredding;
     For the rare mince-pie
     And the plums stand by
To fill the paste that’s a-kneading.

Julia and I did lately sit
Playing for sport at cherry-pit:
She threw; I cast; and, having thrown,
I got the pit, and she the stone.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones ; come and buy.
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer : There,
Where my Julia’s lips do smile ;
There’s the land, or cherry-isle,
Whose plantations fully show
All the year where cherries grow.

Come guard this night the Christmas-Pie,
That the thief, though ne’er so sly,
With his flesh-hooks, don’t come nigh
                  To catch it

From him, who all alone sits there,
Having his eyes still in his ear,
And a deal of nightly fear
                  To watch it.

One birth our Savior had; the like none yet
Was, or will be a second like to it.

What needs complaints,
When she a place
Has with the race
  Of saints?

In endless mirth
She thinks not on
What ’s said or done
  In Earth.

She sees no tears,
Or any tone
Of thy deep groan
  She hears:

Nor does she mind
Or think on ‘t now
That ever thou
  Wast kind;

But changed above,
She likes not there,
As she did here,
  Thy love.

Forbear therefore,
And lull asleep
Thy woes, and weep
  No more.

Get up, get up for shame! The blooming morn
    Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.
    See how Aurora throws her fair
    Fresh-quilted colours through the air:
    Get up, sweet slug-a-bed, and see
    The dew bespangling herb and tree!
Each flower has wept and bow’d toward the east
Above an hour since, yet you not drest;
    Nay! not so much as out of bed?
    When all the birds have matins said
    And sung their thankful hymns, ’tis sin,
    Nay, profanation, to keep in,
Whereas a thousand virgins on this day
Spring sooner than the lark, to fetch in May.

Rise and put on your foliage, and be seen
To come forth, like the spring-time, fresh and green,
    And sweet as Flora. Take no care
    For jewels for your gown or hair:
    Fear not; the leaves will strew
    Gems in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the day has kept,
Against you come, some orient pearls unwept.
    Come, and receive them while the light
    Hangs on the dew-locks of the night:
    And Titan on the eastern hill
    Retires himself, or else stands still
Till you come forth! Wash, dress, be brief in praying:
Few beads are best when once we go a-Maying.

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.
    Can such delights be in the street
    And open fields, and we not see ‘t?
    Come, we’ll abroad: and let ’s obey
    The proclamation made for May,
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But, my Corinna, come, let ’s go a-Maying.

There ’s not a budding boy or girl this day
But is got up and gone to bring in May.
    A deal of youth ere this is come
    Back, and with white-thorn laden home.
    Some have despatch’d their cakes and cream,
    Before that we have left to dream:
And some have wept and woo’d, and plighted troth,
And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
    Many a green-gown has been given,
    Many a kiss, both odd and even:
    Many a glance, too, has been sent
    From out the eye, love’s firmament:
Many a jest told of the keys betraying
This night, and locks pick’d: yet we’re not a-Maying!

Come, let us go, while we are in our prime,
And take the harmless folly of the time!
    We shall grow old apace, and die
    Before we know our liberty.
    Our life is short, and our days run
    As fast away as does the sun.
And, as a vapour or a drop of rain,
Once lost, can ne’er be found again,
    So when or you or I are made
    A fable, song, or fleeting shade,
    All love, all liking, all delight
    Lies drown’d with us in endless night.
Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying,
Come, my Corinna, come, let ’s go a-Maying.

A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction:
An erring lace which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher:
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbons to flow confusedly:
A winning wave (deserving note)
In the tempestuous petticoat:
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility:
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

When a daffodil I see,
Hanging down his head towards me,
Guess I may what I must be:
First, I shall decline my head;
Secondly, I shall be dead;
Lastly, safely buried.

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.

Would ye have fresh cheese and cream?
Julia’s breast can give you them:
And, if more, each ****** cries:
To your cream here’s strawberries.

See’st thou that cloud as silver clear,
Plump, soft, and swelling everywhere?
’Tis Julia’s bed, and she sleeps there.

Fain would I kiss my Julia’s dainty leg,
Which is as white and hairless as an egg.

Dearest of thousands, now the time draws near
That with my lines my life must full-stop here.
Cut off thy hairs, and let thy tears be shed
Over my turf when I am buried.
Then for effusions, let none wanting be,
Or other rites that do belong to me;
As love shall help thee, when thou do’st go hence
Unto thy everlasting residence.

Why dost thou wound and break my heart,
As if we should for ever part?
Hast thou not heard an oath from me,
After a day, or two, or three,
I would come back and live with thee?
Take, if thou dost distrust that vow,
This second protestation now.
Upon thy cheek that spangled tear,
Which sits as dew of roses there,
That tear shall scarce be dried before
I’ll kiss the threshold of thy door.
Then weep not, sweet; but this much know,
I’m half return’d before I go.

For my embalming, Julia, do but this;
Give thou my lips but their supremest kiss,
Or else transfuse thy breath into the chest
Where my small relics must for ever rest;
That breath the balm, the myrrh, the nard shall be,
To give an incorruption unto me.

I have been wanton and too bold, I fear,
To chafe o’ermuch the ******’s cheek or ear.
Beg for my pardon, Julia: he doth win
Grace with the gods who’s sorry for his sin.
That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come
And go with me to choose my burial room:
My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies,
Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes.

Julia, if I chance to die
Ere I print my poetry,
I most humbly thee desire
To commit it to the fire:
Better ’twere my book were dead
Than to live not perfected.

When that day comes, whose evening says I’m gone
Unto that watery desolation,
Devoutly to thy closet-gods then pray
That my wing’d ship may meet no remora.
Those deities which circum-walk the seas,
And look upon our dreadful passages,
Will from all dangers re-deliver me
For one drink-offering poured out by thee.
Mercy and truth live with thee! and forbear
(In my short absence) to unsluice a tear;
But yet for love’s sake let thy lips do this,
Give my dead picture one engendering kiss:
Work that to life, and let me ever dwell
In thy remembrance, Julia. So farewell.

Come thou, who are the wine and wit
      Of all I’ve writ:
The grace, the glory, and the best
      Piece of the rest.
Thou art of what I did intend
      The all and end;
And what was made, was made to meet
      Thee, thee, my sheet.
Come then and be to my chaste side
      Both bed and bride:
We two, as reliques left, will have
      Once rest, one grave:
And hugging close, we will not fear
      Lust entering here:
Where all desires are dead and cold
      As is the mould;
And all affections are forgot,
      Or trouble not.
Here, here, the slaves and prisoners be
      From shackles free:
And weeping widows long oppress’d
      Do here find rest.
The wrongèd client ends his laws
      Here, and his cause.
Here those long suits of Chancery lie
      Quiet, or die:
And all Star-Chamber bills do cease
      Or hold their peace.
Here needs no Court for our Request
      Where all are best,
All wise, all equal, and all just
      Alike i’ th’ dust.
Nor need we here to fear the frown
      Of court or crown:
Where fortune bears no sway o’er things,
      There all are kings.
In this securer place we’ll keep
      As lull’d asleep;
Or for a little time we’ll lie
      As robes laid by;
To be another day re-worn,
      Turn’d, but not torn:
Or like old testaments engross’d,
      Lock’d up, not lost.
And for a while lie here conceal’d,
      To be reveal’d
Next at the great Platonick year,
      And then meet here.

My soul would one day go and seek
For roses, and in Julia’s cheek
A richesse of those sweets she found,
As in another Rosamond.
But gathering roses as she was,
Not knowing what would come to pass,
It chanc’d a ringlet of her hair
Caught my poor soul, as in a snare:
Which ever since has been in thrall;
Yet freedom, she enjoys withal.

Thy azure robe I did behold
As airy as the leaves of gold,
Which, erring here, and wandring there,
Pleas’d with transgression ev’rywhere:
Sometimes ’twould pant, and sigh, and heave,
As if to stir it scarce had leave:
But, having got it, thereupon
’Twould make a brave expansion.
And pounc’d with stars it showed to me
Like a celestial canopy.
Sometimes ’twould blaze, and then abate,
Like to a flame grown moderate:
Sometimes away ’twould wildly fling,
Then to thy thighs so closely cling
That some conceit did melt me down
As lovers fall into a swoon:
And all confus’d, I there did lie
Drown’d in delights, but could not die.
That leading cloud I follow’d still,
Hoping t’ have seen of it my fill;
But ah ! I could not : should it move
To life eternal, I could love.

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 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 pray’d,
And I nod to what is said,
‘Cause my speech is now decay’d,
      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!

I press’d my Julia’s lips, and in the kiss
Her soul and love were palpable in this.

Love is a circle that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of love.

What I fancy I approve,
No dislike there is in love:
Be my mistress short or tall,
And distorted therewithal:
Be she likewise one of those,
That an acre hath of nose:
Be her forehead and her eyes
Full of incongruities:
Be her cheeks so shallow too,
As to show her tongue wag through;
Be her lips ill hung or set,
And her grinders black as jet:
Hath she thin hair, hath she none,
She’s to me a paragon.

A bachelor I will
Live as I have liv’d still,
And never take a wife
To crucify my life;
But this I’ll tell ye too,
What now I mean to do:
A sister (in the stead
Of wife) about I’ll lead;
Which I will keep embrac’d,
And kiss, but yet be chaste.

Breathe, Julia, breathe, and I’ll protest,
    Nay more, I’ll deeply swear,
That all the spices of the east
    Are circumfused there.

How am I ravish’d! when I do but see
The painter’s art in thy sciography?
If so, how much more shall I dote thereon
When once he gives it incarnation?

When what is lov’d is present, love doth spring;
But being absent, love lies languishing.

When Julia chid I stood as mute the while
As is the fish or tongueless crocodile.
Air coin’d to words my Julia could not hear,
But she could see each eye to stamp a tear;
By which mine angry mistress might descry
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
And when true love of words is destitute
The eyes by tears speak, while the tongue is mute.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,
Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers.
I sing of May-poles, hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red, and lilies white.
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairy King.
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

About the sweet bag of a bee
Two cupids fell at odds,
And whose the pretty prize should be
They vowed to ask the gods.

Which Venus hearing, thither came,
And for their boldness stripped them,
And, taking thence from each his flame,
With rods of myrtle whipped them.

Which done, to still their wanton cries,
When quiet grown she’d seen them,
She kissed, and wiped their dove-like eyes,
And gave the bag between them.

Why I tie about thy wrist,
      Julia, this my silken twist;
      For what other reason is ‘t,
But to show thee how, in part,
Thou my pretty captive art?
But thy bondslave is my heart;
’Tis but silk that bindeth thee,
Knap the thread and thou art free:
But ’tis otherwise with me;
—I am bound, and fast bound, so
That from thee I cannot go;
If I could, I would not so.

This day, my Julia, thou must make
For Mistress Bride the wedding-cake:
Knead but the dough, and it will be
To paste of almonds turn’d by thee:
Or kiss it thou but once or twice,
And for the bride-cake there’ll be spice.

White as Zenobia’s teeth, the which the girls
Of Rome did wear for their most precious pearls.