To print our poems, the
propulsive
cause
Is fame--the breath of popular applause.
Is fame--the breath of popular applause.
Robert Herrick
TO JULIA IN THE TEMPLE.
Besides us two, i' th' temple here's not one
To make up now a congregation.
Let's to the altar of perfumes then go,
And say short prayers; and when we have done so,
Then we shall see, how in a little space
Saints will come in to fill each pew and place.
446. TO OENONE.
What conscience, say, is it in thee,
When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
And to retain thy own?
For shame or pity now incline
To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
Or give me back my heart.
Covet not both; but if thou dost
Resolve to part with neither,
Why! yet to show that thou art just,
Take me and mine together.
447. HIS WEAKNESS IN WOES.
I cannot suffer; and in this my part
Of patience wants. _Grief breaks the stoutest heart. _
448. FAME MAKES US FORWARD.
To print our poems, the propulsive cause
Is fame--the breath of popular applause.
449. TO GROVES.
Ye silent shades, whose each tree here
Some relique of a saint doth wear,
Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove
The fire and martyrdom of love:
Here is the legend of those saints
That died for love, and their complaints:
Their wounded hearts and names we find
Encarv'd upon the leaves and rind.
Give way, give way to me, who come
Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom:
And have deserv'd as much (love knows)
As to be canonis'd 'mongst those
Whose deeds and deaths here written are
Within your greeny calendar:
By all those virgins' fillets hung
Upon your boughs, and requiems sung
For saints and souls departed hence
(Here honour'd still with frankincense);
By all those tears that have been shed,
As a drink-offering to the dead;
By all those true love-knots that be
With mottoes carv'd on every tree;
By sweet Saint Phyllis pity me:
By dear Saint Iphis, and the rest
Of all those other saints now blest,
Me, me, forsaken, here admit
Among your myrtles to be writ:
That my poor name may have the glory
To live remembered in your story.
_Phyllis_, the Thracian princess who hanged herself for love of
Demophoon.
_Iphis_, a Cyprian youth who hanged himself for love of Anaxaretes.
450. AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN.
Here a solemn fast we keep,
While all beauty lies asleep
Hush'd be all things--no noise here--
But the toning of a tear:
Or a sigh of such as bring
Cowslips for her covering.
451. TO THE RIGHT GRACIOUS PRINCE, LODOWICK, DUKE OF RICHMOND AND
LENNOX.
Of all those three brave brothers fall'n i' th' war
(Not without glory), noble sir, you are,
Despite of all concussions, left the stem
To shoot forth generations like to them.
Which may be done, if, sir, you can beget
Men in their substance, not in counterfeit,
Such essences as those three brothers; known
Eternal by their own production.
Of whom, from fame's white trumpet, this I'll tell,
Worthy their everlasting chronicle:
Never since first Bellona us'd a shield,
_Such three brave brothers fell in Mars his field_.
These were those three Horatii Rome did boast,
Rome's were these three Horatii we have lost.
Besides us two, i' th' temple here's not one
To make up now a congregation.
Let's to the altar of perfumes then go,
And say short prayers; and when we have done so,
Then we shall see, how in a little space
Saints will come in to fill each pew and place.
446. TO OENONE.
What conscience, say, is it in thee,
When I a heart had one,
To take away that heart from me,
And to retain thy own?
For shame or pity now incline
To play a loving part;
Either to send me kindly thine,
Or give me back my heart.
Covet not both; but if thou dost
Resolve to part with neither,
Why! yet to show that thou art just,
Take me and mine together.
447. HIS WEAKNESS IN WOES.
I cannot suffer; and in this my part
Of patience wants. _Grief breaks the stoutest heart. _
448. FAME MAKES US FORWARD.
To print our poems, the propulsive cause
Is fame--the breath of popular applause.
449. TO GROVES.
Ye silent shades, whose each tree here
Some relique of a saint doth wear,
Who, for some sweetheart's sake, did prove
The fire and martyrdom of love:
Here is the legend of those saints
That died for love, and their complaints:
Their wounded hearts and names we find
Encarv'd upon the leaves and rind.
Give way, give way to me, who come
Scorch'd with the self-same martyrdom:
And have deserv'd as much (love knows)
As to be canonis'd 'mongst those
Whose deeds and deaths here written are
Within your greeny calendar:
By all those virgins' fillets hung
Upon your boughs, and requiems sung
For saints and souls departed hence
(Here honour'd still with frankincense);
By all those tears that have been shed,
As a drink-offering to the dead;
By all those true love-knots that be
With mottoes carv'd on every tree;
By sweet Saint Phyllis pity me:
By dear Saint Iphis, and the rest
Of all those other saints now blest,
Me, me, forsaken, here admit
Among your myrtles to be writ:
That my poor name may have the glory
To live remembered in your story.
_Phyllis_, the Thracian princess who hanged herself for love of
Demophoon.
_Iphis_, a Cyprian youth who hanged himself for love of Anaxaretes.
450. AN EPITAPH UPON A VIRGIN.
Here a solemn fast we keep,
While all beauty lies asleep
Hush'd be all things--no noise here--
But the toning of a tear:
Or a sigh of such as bring
Cowslips for her covering.
451. TO THE RIGHT GRACIOUS PRINCE, LODOWICK, DUKE OF RICHMOND AND
LENNOX.
Of all those three brave brothers fall'n i' th' war
(Not without glory), noble sir, you are,
Despite of all concussions, left the stem
To shoot forth generations like to them.
Which may be done, if, sir, you can beget
Men in their substance, not in counterfeit,
Such essences as those three brothers; known
Eternal by their own production.
Of whom, from fame's white trumpet, this I'll tell,
Worthy their everlasting chronicle:
Never since first Bellona us'd a shield,
_Such three brave brothers fell in Mars his field_.
These were those three Horatii Rome did boast,
Rome's were these three Horatii we have lost.
