No More Learning

278. _To his Household Gods. _ Obviously written at the time of his
ejection from his living.

283. _A Nuptial Song on Sir Clipseby Crew. _ Of this Epithalamium
(written in 1625 for the marriage of Sir Clipseby Crew, knighted by
James I. at Theobald's in 1620, with Jane, daughter of Sir John
Pulteney), two manuscript versions, substantially agreeing, are
preserved at the British Museum (Harl. MS. 6917, and Add. 25, 303).
Seven verses are transcribed in these manuscripts which Herrick
afterwards saw fit to omit, and almost every verse contains variants of
importance. It is impossible to convey the effect of the earlier version
by a mere collation, and I therefore transcribe it in full, despite its
length. As before, variants and additions are printed in italics. The
numbers in brackets are those of the later version, as given in
_Hesperides_. The marginal readings are variants of Add.
25, 303, from
the Harleian manuscript.


1 [1].

"What's that we see from far? the spring of Day
Bloom'd from the East, or fair _enamell'd_ May
Blown out of April; or some new
Star fill'd with glory to our view,
Reaching at Heaven,
To add a nobler Planet to the seven?
Say or do we not descry
Some Goddess in a Cloud of Tiffany
To move, or rather the
Emerg_ing_ Venus from the sea?


2 [2].

"'Tis she! 'tis she! or else some more Divine
Enlightened substance; mark how from the shrine
Of holy Saints she paces on
_Throwing about_ Vermilion
And Amber: spice-
ing the chafte-air with fumes of Paradise.
Then come on, come on, and yield
A savour like unto a blessed field,
When the bedabbled morn
Washes the golden ears of corn.


3.

"_Lead on fair paranymphs, the while her eyes,
Guilty of somewhat, ripe the strawberries
And cherries in her cheeks, there's cream
Already spilt, her rays must gleam
Gently thereon,
And so beget lust and temptation
To surfeit and to hunger.
Help on her pace; and, though she lag, yet stir
Her homewards; well she knows
Her heart's at home, howe'er she goes. _


4 [3].

"See where she comes; and smell how all the street
Breathes Vine-yards and Pomegranates: O how sweet,
As a fir'd Altar, is each stone
_Spirting forth_ pounded Cinnamon.
The Phoenix nest,
Built up of odours, burneth in her breast.