No More Learning

^ indicates 'superscript' within the text.

Obvious typesetting errors have been corrected without note, however
additional corrections have been recorded in the Transcriber's
Endnotes at the end each volume.




EDITOR'S NOTE.


In this edition of Herrick quotation is for the first time facilitated
by the poems being numbered according to their order in the original
edition. This numbering has rendered it possible to print those
Epigrams, which successive editors have joined in deploring, in a
detachable Appendix, their place in the original being indicated by the
numeration. It remains to be added that the footnotes in this edition
are intended to explain, as unobtrusively as possible, difficulties of
phrase or allusion which might conceivably hinder the understanding of
Herrick's meaning. In the longer Notes at the end of each volume earlier
versions of some important poems are printed from manuscripts at the
British Museum, and an endeavour has been made to extend the list of
Herrick's debts to classical sources, and to identify some of his
friends who have hitherto escaped research. An editor is always apt to
mention his predecessors rather for blame than praise, and I therefore
take this opportunity of acknowledging my general indebtedness to the
pioneer work of Mr. Hazlitt and Dr. Grosart, upon whose foundations all
editors of Herrick must necessarily build.

ALFRED W. POLLARD.




PREFACE.


It is singular that the first great age of English lyric poetry should
have been also the one great age of English dramatic poetry: but it is
hardly less singular that the lyric school should have advanced as
steadily as the dramatic school declined from the promise of its dawn.
Born with Marlowe, it rose at once with Shakespeare to heights
inaccessible before and since and for ever, to sink through bright
gradations of glorious decline to its final and beautiful sunset in
Shirley: but the lyrical record that begins with the author of "Euphues"
and "Endymion" grows fuller if not brighter through a whole chain of
constellations till it culminates in the crowning star of Herrick.
Shakespeare's last song, the exquisite and magnificent overture to "The
Two Noble Kinsmen," is hardly so limpid in its flow, so liquid in its
melody, as the two great songs in "Valentinian": but Herrick, our last
poet of that incomparable age or generation, has matched them again and
again. As a creative and inventive singer, he surpasses all his rivals
in quantity of good work; in quality of spontaneous instinct and
melodious inspiration he reminds us, by frequent and flawless evidence,
who above all others must beyond all doubt have been his first master
and his first model in lyric poetry--the author of "The Passionate
Shepherd to his Love".

The last of his line, he is and will probably be always the first in
rank and station of English song-writers. We have only to remember how
rare it is to find a perfect song, good to read and good to sing,
combining the merits of Coleridge and Shelley with the capabilities of
Tommy Moore and Haynes Bayly, to appreciate the unique and
unapproachable excellence of Herrick. The lyrist who wished to be a
butterfly, the lyrist who fled or flew to a lone vale at the hour
(whatever hour it may be) "when stars are weeping," have left behind
them such stuff as may be sung, but certainly cannot be read and endured
by any one with an ear for verse. The author of the Ode on France and
the author of the Ode to the West Wind have left us hardly more than a
song a-piece which has been found fit for setting to music: and, lovely
as they are, the fame of their authors does not mainly depend on the
song of Glycine or the song of which Leigh Hunt so justly and so
critically said that Beaumont and Fletcher never wrote anything of the
kind more lovely. Herrick, of course, lives simply by virtue of his
songs; his more ambitious or pretentious lyrics are merely magnified and
prolonged and elaborated songs. Elegy or litany, epicede or
epithalamium, his work is always a song-writer's; nothing more, but
nothing less, than the work of the greatest song-writer--as surely as
Shakespeare is the greatest dramatist--ever born of English race. The
apparent or external variety of his versification is, I should suppose,
incomparable; but by some happy tact or instinct he was too naturally
unambitious to attempt, like Jonson, a flight in the wake of Pindar. He
knew what he could not do: a rare and invaluable gift. Born a blackbird
or a thrush, he did not take himself (or try) to be a nightingale.

It has often been objected that he did mistake himself for a sacred
poet: and it cannot be denied that his sacred verse at its worst is as
offensive as his secular verse at its worst; nor can it be denied that
no severer sentence of condemnation can be passed upon any poet's work.
But neither Herbert nor Crashaw could have bettered such a divinely
beautiful triplet as this:--

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

That is worthy of Miss Rossetti herself: and praise of such work can go
no higher.

But even such exquisite touches or tones of colour may be too often
repeated in fainter shades or more glaring notes of assiduous and facile
reiteration. The sturdy student who tackles his Herrick as a schoolboy
is expected to tackle his Horace, in a spirit of pertinacious and stolid
straightforwardness, will probably find himself before long so nauseated
by the incessant inhalation of spices and flowers, condiments and
kisses, that if a musk-rat had run over the page it could hardly be less
endurable to the physical than it is to the spiritual stomach.