To Primroses Filled with Morning Dew by Robert Herrick
Why doe ye weep, sweet babes? Can Tears Speak griefe in you, Who were but borne Just as the modest morne Teem’d her refreshing dew? Alas you have not known that shower, That marres a flower; Nor felt th’unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worne with yeares; Or warpt, as we, Who think it strange to see, Such pretty flowers, (like to orphans young) To speak by teares, before ye have a tongue.
Speak, whimp’ring younglings, and make known The reason, why Ye droop, and weep; Is it for want of sleep? Or childish lullabie? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kisse From that sweet-heart, to this? No, no, this sorrow shown By your teares shed, Wo’d have this lecture read, That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceiv’d with grief are, and with teares brought forth.
Music, thou Queen of Heaven, care-charming spell, That strik’st a stillness into hell ; Thou that tam’st tigers, and fierce storms that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies ; Fall down, down, down from those thy chiming spheres, To charm our souls, as thou enchant’st our ears.
Fair Daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain’d his noon. Stay, stay, Until the hasting day Has run But to the even-song; And, having pray’d together, we Will go with you along.
We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away, Like to the summer’s rain; Or as the pearls of morning’s dew, Ne’er to be found again.
Charm me asleep, and melt me so With thy delicious numbers, That, being ravish’d, hence I go Away in easy slumbers. Ease my sick head, And make my bed, Thou power that canst sever From me this ill, And quickly still, Though thou not kill My fever.
Thou sweetly canst convert the same From a consuming fire Into a gentle licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep My pains asleep; And give me such reposes That I, poor I, May think thereby I live and die ‘Mongst roses.
Fall on me like the silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptim o’er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That, having ease me given, With full delight I leave this light, And take my flight For Heaven.
Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past, But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last.
What, were ye born to be An hour or half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ‘Twas pity Nature brought ye forth Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite.
But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne’er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you, awhile, they glide Into the grave.
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 Time’s 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.
Begin to charm, and, as thou strok’st mine ears With thy enchantment, melt me into tears. Then let thy active hand scud o’er thy lyre, And make my spirits frantic with the fire. That done, sink down into a silvery strain, And make me smooth as balm and oil again.
Ah music music Stiller of the troubled brow Tamer of the beast
Robert Herrick, (1591 -1674), English cleric and poet, the most original of the “sons of Ben [Jonson],” who revived the spirit of the ancient classic lyric.
He is best remembered for the line “Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,” and is counted among the Cavalier poets.
Almost forgotten in the 18th century, and in the 19th century alternately applauded for his poetry’s lyricism and condemned for its “obscenities,”
Robert Herrick nowadays is recognized as one of the most accomplished nondramatic poets of his age. Long dismissed as merely a “minor poet” and, as a consequence, neglected or underestimated by scholars and critics
Herrick wrote elegies, satires, epigrams, love songs to imaginary mistresses, marriage songs, complimentary verse to friends and patrons, and celebrations of rustic and ecclesiastical festivals.
The appeal of Herrick’s poetry lies in its truth to human sentiments and its perfection of form and style.
Frequently light, worldly, and hedonistic and making few pretensions to intellectual profundity, it yet covers a wide range of subjects and emotions, ranging from lyrics inspired by rural life to wistful evocations of life and love’s evanescence and fleeting beauty.
Herrick’s lyrics are notable for their technical mastery and the interplay of thought, rhythm, and imagery that they display. As such, they are typical of the Cavalier poets, a group identifiable by its politics—loyal to Charles I during the English Civil Wars—and the distinct tone and style of its members’ verse.
As a poet, Herrick was steeped in the classical tradition; he was also influenced by English folklore and lyrics, by Italian madrigals, by the Bible and patristic literature, and by contemporary English writers, notably Jonson and Robert Burton.
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