No More Learning

Not Virgil's gnat, to whom the spring
All flowers sent to's burying;
Not Martial's bee, which in a bead
Of amber quick was buried;
Nor that fine worm that does inter
Herself i' th' silken sepulchre;
Nor my rare Phil,[K] that lately was
With lilies tomb'd up in a glass;
More honour had than this same fly,
Dead, and closed up in ivory.

_Virgil's gnat_, see 256.
_Martial's bee_, see Note.

[K] _Sparrow. _ (Note in the original edition. )


499. TO JULIA.

Julia, when thy Herrick dies,
Close thou up thy poet's eyes:
And his last breath, let it be
Taken in by none but thee.


500. TO MISTRESS DOROTHY PARSONS.

If thou ask me, dear, wherefore
I do write of thee no more,
I must answer, sweet, thy part
Less is here than in my heart.


502. HOW HE WOULD DRINK HIS WINE.

Fill me my wine in crystal; thus, and thus
I see't in's _puris naturalibus_:
Unmix'd. I love to have it smirk and shine;
_'Tis sin I know, 'tis sin to throttle wine_.
What madman's he, that when it sparkles so,
Will cool his flames or quench his fires with snow?


503. HOW MARIGOLDS CAME YELLOW.

Jealous girls these sometimes were,
While they liv'd or lasted here:
Turn'd to flowers, still they be
Yellow, mark'd for jealousy.


504. THE BROKEN CRYSTAL.

To fetch me wine my Lucia went,
Bearing a crystal continent:
But, making haste, it came to pass
She brake in two the purer glass,
Then smil'd, and sweetly chid her speed;
So with a blush beshrew'd the deed.

_Continent_, holder.


505. PRECEPTS.

Good precepts we must firmly hold,
By daily learning we wax old.


506. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE EDWARD, EARL OF DORSET.

If I dare write to you, my lord, who are
Of your own self a public theatre,
And, sitting, see the wiles, ways, walks of wit,
And give a righteous judgment upon it,
What need I care, though some dislike me should,
If Dorset say what Herrick writes is good?
We know y'are learn'd i' th' Muses, and no less
In our state-sanctions, deep or bottomless.
Whose smile can make a poet, and your glance
Dash all bad poems out of countenance;
So that an author needs no other bays
For coronation than your only praise,
And no one mischief greater than your frown
To null his numbers, and to blast his crown.