HERRICK.

From The Apparition of his Mistress calling him to Elysium.

[1648

AND here we'll sit on primrose-banks, and see
Love's Chorus led by Cupid; and we'll be
Two loving followers too unto the grove,
Where Poets sing the stories of our love.

Behold them in a spacious theater,

Among which glories (crown'd with sacred bays,
And flattering ivy) Two recite their plays,
Beaumont and Fletcher, Swans, to whom all ears
Listen, while they (like sirens in their spheres)
Sing their Evadnes; and still more for thee
There yet remains to know, than thou canst see
By glimmering of a fancy; do but come,
And there I'll show thee that capacious room
In which thy father Jonson now is placed,
As in a globe of radiant fire, and graced
To be in that orb crown'd (that doth include
Those prophets of the former magnitude),
And he one chief.

Upon Master Fletcher's incomparable

Plays.

[1648

APOLLO sings, his harp resounds: give room,
For now behold the golden pomp is come,

Thy pomp of plays, which thousands come to see,

With admiration both of them and thee.

Beaumont and Fletcher.

Jonson.

O volume worthy, leaf by leaf, and cover,

To be with juice of cedar wash'd all over;

Here words with lines, and lines with scenes consent,

To raise an Act to full astonishment;

Here melting numbers, words of power to move
Young men to swoon and maids to die for love.
Love lies a bleeding here, Evadne there
Swells with brave rage, yet comely everywhere;
Here's a Mad Lover, there that high design
Of King and no King (and the rare plot thine),
So that whene'er we circumvolve our eyes,
Such rich, such fresh, such sweet varieties,
Ravish our spirits, that entranced we see

None writes love's passion in the world, like thee.

His Prayer to Ben Jonson. [1648

WHEN I a verse shall make,

Know I have pray'd thee

For old religion's sake,

Saint Ben to aid me.

Make the way smooth for me,

When I, thy Herrick,

Honouring thee, on my knee

Offer my Lyric.

Candles I'll give to thee,

And a new altar;

And thou Saint Ben, shalt be

Writ in my psalter.

Ah Ben!

Say how, or when

Shall we thy guests

Meet at those lyric feasts,

Made at the Sun,

The Dog, the triple Tun?

Where we such clusters had

As made us nobly wild, not mad;
And yet each verse of thine

Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.

My Ben!

Or come again :

Or send to us,

Thy wit's great over-plus;

But teach us yet

Wisely to husband it

Lest we that talent spend,

And having once brought to an end

That precious stock; the store

Of such a wit the world should have no more.

A Bacchanalian Verse.

FILL me a mighty bowl
Up to the brink :
That I may drink

Unto my Jonson's soul.

Jonson.

Jonson.

THOU had'st the wreath before, now take the tree
That henceforth none be laurel-crown'd but thee.

Upon Ben Jonson.

HERE lies Jonson with the rest

Of the Poets; but the best.

[1648

Reader, would'st thou more have known?

Ask his story, not this stone.

That will speak what this can't tell

Of his glory. So farewell.

Upon Mr. Ben Jonson.

AFTER the rare arch-poet died,

[1648

The sock grew loathsome, and the buskin's pride
Together with the stage's glory stood

Each like a poor and pitied widowhood.

The Cirque profaned was; and all postures rackt :
For men did strut, and stride, and stare, not act.
Then temper flew from words; and men did

squeak,

Look red, and blow, and bluster, but not speak: No holy rage, or frantic fire did stir,

Or flash about the spacious theater.

No clap of hands, or shout, or praises-proof
Did crack the playhouse sides, or cleave her roof.
Artless the scene was; and that monstrous sin
Of deep and arrant ignorance came in ;
Such ignorance as theirs was, who once hiss'd
At thy unequall'd play the Alchemist;
O fie upon 'em! Lastly too, all wit
In utter darkness did, and still will sit
Sleeping the luckless age out, till that she
Her resurrection has again with thee.