But as thy meat, so thy immortal wine Makes the smirk face of each to shine, And spring fresh rose-buds, while the salt, the wit, Flows from the wine, and graces it;
While Reverence, waiting at the bashful board, Honours my lady and my lord.
No scurril jest, no open scene is laid Here, for to make the face afraid;
But temp'rate mirth dealt forth, and so discreet-
Ly, that it makes the meat more sweet, And adds perfumes unto the wine, which thou Dost rather pour forth, than allow By cruse and measure; thus devoting wine, As the Canary isles were thine;
But with that wisdom and that method, as No one that's there his guilty glass Drinks of distemper, or has cause to cry Repentance to his liberty.
No, thou know'st orders, ethics, and hast read All oeconomics, know'st to lead A house-dance neatly, and canst truly show How far a figure ought to go, Forward or backward, side-ward, and what pace Can give, and what retract a grace;
What gesture, courtship, comeliness agrees, With those thy primitive decrees, To give subsistence to thy house, and proof What Genii support thy roof, Goodness and greatness, not the oaken piles;
For these, and marbles have their whiles To last, but not their ever; virtue's hand It is which builds 'gainst fate to stand.
Such is thy house, whose firm foundations trust Is more in thee than in her dust, Or depth; these last may yield, and yearly shrink, When what is strongly built, no chink Or yawning rupture can the same devour, But fix'd it stands, by her own power And well-laid bottom, on the iron and rock, Which tries, and counter-stands the shock And ram of time, and by vexation grows The stronger. Virtue dies when foes Are wanting to her exercise, but, great And large she spreads by dust and sweat.
Safe stand thy walls, and thee, and so both will, Since neither's height was raised by th'ill Of others; since no stud, no stone, no piece Was rear'd up by the poor-man's fleece;
No widow's tenement was rack'd to gild Or fret thy cieling, or to build A sweating-closet, to anoint the silk-
Soft skin, or bath[e] in asses' milk;
No orphan's pittance, left him, served to set The pillars up of lasting jet, For which their cries might beat against thine ears, Or in the damp jet read their tears.
No plank from hallow'd altar does appeal To yond' Star-chamber, or does seal A curse to thee, or thine; but all things even Make for thy peace, and pace to heaven.
--Go on directly so, as just men may A thousand times more swear, than say This is that princely Pemberton, who can Teach men to keep a God in man;
And when wise poets shall search out to see Good men, they find them all in thee.
*65*
ALL THINGS DECAY AND DIE
All things decay with time: The forest sees The growth and down-fall of her aged trees;
That timber tall, which three-score lustres stood The proud dictator of the state-like wood, I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak, Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.
*66*
TO HIS DYING BROTHER, MASTER WILLIAM HERRICK
Life of my life, take not so soon thy flight, But stay the time till we have bade good-night.
Thou hast both wind and tide with thee; thy way As soon dispatch'd is by the night as day.
Let us not then so rudely henceforth go Till we have wept, kiss'd, sigh'd, shook hands, or so.
There's pain in parting, and a kind of hell When once true lovers take their last farewell.
What? shall we two our endless leaves take here Without a sad look, or a solemn tear?
He knows not love that hath not this truth proved, Love is most loth to leave the thing beloved.
Pay we our vows and go; yet when we part, Then, even then, I will bequeath my heart Into thy loving hands; for I'll keep none To warm my breast, when thou, my pulse, art gone, No, here I'll last, and walk, a harmless shade, About this urn, wherein thy dust is laid, To guard it so, as nothing here shall be Heavy, to hurt those sacred seeds of thee.
*67*
HIS AGE:
DEDICATED TO HIS PECULIAR FRIEND, MR JOHN WICKES, UNDER THE NAME OF
POSTUMUS
Ah, Posthumus! our years hence fly And leave no sound: nor piety, Or prayers, or vow Can keep the wrinkle from the brow;
But we must on, As fate does lead or draw us; none, None, Posthumus, could e'er decline The doom of cruel Proserpine.
The pleasing wife, the house, the ground Must all be left, no one plant found To follow thee, Save only the curst cypress-tree!
--A merry mind Looks forward, scorns what's left behind;
Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may, And here enjoy our holiday.
We've seen the past best times, and these Will ne'er return; we see the seas, And moons to wane, But they fill up their ebbs again;
But vanish'd man, Like to a lily lost, ne'er can, Ne'er can repullulate, or bring His days to see a second spring.
But on we must, and thither tend, Where Ancus and rich Tullus blend Their sacred seed;
Thus has infernal Jove decreed;
We must be made, Ere long a song, ere long a shade.
Why then, since life to us is short, Let's make it full up by our sport.
Crown we our heads with roses then, And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for when We two are dead, The world with us is buried.
Then live we free As is the air, and let us be Our own fair wind, and mark each one Day with the white and lucky stone.
We are not poor, although we have No roofs of cedar, nor our brave Baiae, nor keep Account of such a flock of sheep;
Nor bullocks fed To lard the shambles; barbels bred To kiss our hands; nor do we wish For Pollio's lampreys in our dish.
If we can meet, and so confer, Both by a shining salt-cellar, And have our roof, Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof, And cieling free, From that cheap candle-baudery;
We'll eat our bean with that full mirth As we were lords of all the earth.
Well, then, on what seas we are tost, Our comfort is, we can't be lost.
Let the winds drive Our bark, yet she will keep alive Amidst the deeps;
'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keeps The pinnace up; which, though she errs I' th' seas, she saves her passengers.
Say, we must part; sweet mercy bless Us both i' th' sea, camp, wilderness!
Can we so far Stray, to become less circular Than we are now?
