When I have done wyth living, Have done with light and laughter, And knowe not what comes after— This Booke my Hearte must shewe; The best Gifte in my giving, For none have writ such Lyrickes Since Master Robert Herrick’s, Thre hundred yeares ago
The Firste Booke
Snowdroppes in Januarie
Lowly Maydes of Honoure, Stepsisters of Spring; Thus ye wayte uponn her As lowly Maydes of Honoure, Ere Valentyne hath won her Wyth merrie minstrelling.
Fraile are ye, and fearing; Yett wyth white and green, O firste smal flowres appearing, Tho fraile are ye and fearing, In garlandes for my Dearing Ye'll crowne her Winter's queene.
A Peache tre in late March
Sluggard Sunne, so long-since due, Greete my pink Peache tre; Now is tardy Spring anewe Blossoming for thee. Here todaye, Tomorrow gone— Gaze uponn Her whyle ye may; April paye Thy Homage to My pink Peache tre.
“Ah, what is Love?”
The Mayde:“Ah, what is Love?” The Wyfe:“Why, Love is but the pleasure
Of wantoning at leisure
Agaynst my Colin’s breast.” The Mayde:“Will it not prove,
In time, a trifle cloying
Forever to be toying
And ne’er remayne at reste?” The Wyfe:“No gentle Dove
Wo'ld e’er deny her Turtle
The billowing of her kirtle,
The cooing of her kisse.” The Mayde:“Why then, I move,
Since Love’s wyth service laden,
I'd best remayne a Mayden—” The Wyfe:“Farewell, my foolish Miss!”
The Goode Housewyfe:
I. Uponn my Wyne Cupboarde
As molten amber, here Withyn this Box, Are kept the April-teares of Apricocks; And here, more cool, more clere Than Hippocrene, Is stilled the Nectar of the Nectarine.
The Goode Housewyfe
II. Uponn my Feather Bedd
As Prewdence shooke My Bedd one day, She loos’d a piece Of feather grey. “Have care—it tooke, Ere I was Wed, A thousand geese To mayke this Bedd.”
The Goode Housewyfe
III. Unto Caesar the Things whych are Caesar’s
My Colin hath a tal oake Chaire Mayde of a tal oake Tre; And in its shaddowe standeth there A lytell Stoole for me.
My Colin hath of Muggs for Beere, In polish’t pewter, thre; Wyth, tho’ I drinke but water clere, A lytell Mugg for me.
My Colin hath a goodely Presse Wyth yron haspe and keye; Yett gave, that I might have no less, A lytell Presse for me.
My Colin hath a great wyde Bedd Wyth Postes carv’d cunninglie; And thus refews’d—since we are Wed— A lytell Bedd for me.
’Twas Firste in June
Ah hear! Ah hark! How carolleth the Larke— Ah hark! Ah hear! How singeth sweet my Deare: “For June it is the fairest month of all the Joyous yeare!”
Oh see! Oh say! Why chantest thou this Waye? Oh say! Oh see! What skilleth June to thee? “Dear, know’st thou not ’twas firste in June that thou didst lye wyth me!”
A Wyfe sho’ld be Frend, not Goddesse
Why dost Thou sett me Uponn a Pedestal? Whence must I get me, Perchance, some daye a Fall.
Sett high Above thee, My hurte thou can’st not heal— Since I Soe Jove thee, ’Tis I, wo'ld liever kneele.
The Urne of Love
In Sparta, there Withyn an Urne were spedd, Soe Antients learn, The Ashes of the Deade— Yett thou dost swear This Forme that pleaseth thee Is as an Urne Of smoothe Chalcedonie.
Of rose and pearl My Body is but made That thou may’st twine Where heart o’er heart is layed; Lay curle on curle— Soe Duske to Darke shal turn— And free thy Wyne To flow withyn mine Urne.
Uponn a Certayne Gentleman as a Guest
A Morall
I’d cheer thy Bosom, Crush’t In gloome, Yett keepe thy ways From Colin’s room— Since Homo es, (Tho’ Homo sum,) Hath from thy Blossom Brush’t The Bloom.
“Whyle we but toy’d and tarried”
Cini Complaineth:
Whyle we we but toy’d and tarried, When firste thou sought’st my favoure, Thy fervour ne’er cold waver— Eache day newe bliss’d dysclose; But now that we are Married, Thy Love hath growen soe chilly That now but droops the lily Where once there bloom’d the rose.
Colin’s Reply:
Ah, foolish Mistress Dering, Know’st not, the whyie I’m proving The greater is my Loving For that the lesse I kiss; Since Passione is but searing, True Worshipp sho’ld be colder— More foo! is he than bolder That yett wo’ld die of Blisse.
The Secund Booke
In Later May
The Mavis in the glade Wyth carolling Greeteth ‘To ev'ry man and Mayde How swiftely Spring Fleeteth.
The Bee, o’er flowre and fern, His lytell tune Hummeth, To all who list to learne, How Summer soon Cometh.
“When lyes my Love away from me”
When lyes my Love away from me, Agaynst my Hearte I wear The latchett of her lytell shoe, The riband from her haire; But when she speedeth homewardlie, The latchett shal be ta’en To trimm her shoe; The riband, too, Shal tye her Curles agayne.
The Doore to Love
As Colin ’mid my laces plaied He spied A lytell hole; “Now this I fain wo’ld mende,” he sayed, And tryed To tayke his toll.
I wo’ld have fledd from him in frighte— “Yett why, Deare Hearte?” quoth he; “Thou hast the Doore to Love’s delyghte, But I Possesse the Keye!”
The Giftes that Colin gives me:
I. Uponn Colin’s Ring
This Ring that Colin gave me, he did Weare Uponn his finger For a whole long Year. Thus lent he Love to lifelesse gold, and there Til Death, shal linger Vertue from my Dear.
The Giftes that Colin gives me:
II. Uponn Colin’s Booke
This Booke, to you Who do Not knowe, May seeme but pages duly Bounde— Yett ’tis to me, Since he Did go, The Hearte of Colin newly found.
The Giftes that Colin gives me:
III. Uponn Colin’s Swetemeates
My Colin once, when sadlie we did Quarrel, When he wo’ld mayke amends, Did bring me Swetemeates in a Box of Corral, And pray’d: “Let us be Frends.” “Tho’ choice the cates and brave their Caskett carven, My hunger they'll not speede— Dear, ‘tis but for thy Love that I am starven, And for thy Kisse, I pleade.”
Colin wo’ld Atone
I did not meane to mayke thee weep, To finde thee sett wyth fears— Thy loving Heart soe hurte as this, Thy Cheeke All wett wyth teares.
But as the Morning Sunne doth peepe Thro’ showres at breake of day — Thy Smile shal dawne, when I do seeke To kisse Thy teares awaie.
Uponn my Babie:
Thre Days Olde
Soe wayted and soe hop’d-for too, Soe dearly boughte Wyth ravag’d pain— Thou art soe prettie and soe newe, This Pryde my Hearte can scarce contayn— Yett thou dost naught The whole day throughe, Save sleepe, and sucke, and sleepe agayne.
Resemblance
Our Babie hath, soe some declare, Her Father's eys, Her Mother’s haire; Yett others say, to seeme more wyse, Her Father’s haire, Her Mother’s eys. ’Twere well to favoure Sire and Dam, But sho’ld the Trewth be known, Methinks she fain wo'ld prove, poore Lambe, Her eys and haire her Owne.
Uponn a Certayne Kinsman:
Warning to Maydens
Whene’er his Curles Of silken gold, And lustrous eyes Of blewe they see— No Cherub went More innocent, The silly Maydens think, than he.
But, foolish Girles, Be not too Bolde, He’s over-wise For constancie— By Cupid’s arts He’ll win your hearts, Yett leave his owne stil fancy-free.
Romaunt
Soe my refrayne Be sung or said, Whych men shal tell When I am dead— A Maydenhead, A Marriage Bedd, Heigho! And Lovers twain By Passione ledd, Who lov’d too wel Yett were not wed— Heigho!
Of how he’d pleade— And she, afraid, At firste she flee’d And then—she stay’d; To hear the tender wordes he'd speke, (Her smal head pillow’d on his arm— Her soft lips pres’t agaynst his cheek) Was Comforted—and where the harm? She thought his Promise had been prov’d Ere the young Life withyn her mov’d;
Yett he but laugh’d And strove to pass.— His Nectar quaff’d, He snap’t the glasse. And she, when first she found him gone, Did pleade for Love wyth ev’ry breath— Yet stil was forc’d to wayte alone; And Sorrow co’ld not bring her Death, Nor weeping wash her Grief awaie— She must Continue, day by day, To live her life A world apart— Not Mayde, nor Wyfe, But tainted heart. For loving-kindnesse did she yield That whych she never wo'ld have sold— Yett had she but her Worshipp steel’d And argued firste a Bande of Golde, Or Barter’d what she Gave for Pryde— I fancie she had been a Bride; To recke her Score Of Bargaining: “My Vertue for A Wedding Ring.”
Soe my Refrayne Be sung or said, As Men shal tell When I am dead— For Maydenhead And Marriage Bedd, Heigho! O Lovers twain By Passione ledd, An ye love Wel Ye sho’ld be Wed Heigho!
The Thyrd Booke
Upon my Farmeyard: I
My Doves of crumbes have store Yett most they love, I wot, The grayne withyn the strawe That crownes their dove- Cotte.
Agaynst their feedynge-binn, Both smal and big, Do lye My Porkers fat withyn Their thatchen pigg- Stye.
Upon my Farmeyard: II
I keepe my Farme for Colin’s sake, (Since he is kinde But Poore.) My Wheate for fine brown Bread I bake, That he may find Good store.
But since playne Bread is dull, I trowe, And I but come To please, I give him Creme from my browne Cow, And Honey from My Bees.
Colin’s Breakfaste
Eache daye I sett this oaken Table here, At eight o’clocke wyth Breakfaste for my Dear; When, ¢’er to see how wel my worke is done, Thro’ mullion’d lattice peepes the Morning Sunne— Whyle nod the new-wak’d roses, red and white, He plaies o’er panelled walls wyth golden light; And ere his greeting Beams my Colin wake, These pleasures for his pleasing do I take: A linnen Table Cloth of broider’d mesh, A patt of yellowe Butter, salt and freshe; White, cremy Milke the cow did yielde at Dawn, And fragrant Coffy, newe from berrys drawne; A Ham for Colin’s carving, pink and leane, Wyth powder’d crumbes engarnished, crispely clene; A brown Egg in a Delften cuppe of blewe, A browne Loaf on a wooden platter, too; And that he may the more prefer his Home, A dishe of Silvern Honey in the Combe.— When all at last is sett, and I made neate: “My Colin, Breakfaste waytes thee—come and Eat.”
To Praise my Babie
Soe smal Thou art—thou’lt crave Suche care— Yett shal a Mother understand How all The Kingdoms riche and rare Are held withyn thy lytell hand; And all the Treasures of the Earth— O Miracle whych gave Thy Birth.
“And on the Sabbath, Thou Shalt Do No Manner of Worke”
—Soe Monday shal be Washing Day; On Tuesday shal I bake; On Wednesday, brew; On Thursday, stewe; On Friday, butter-mayke. I clene my House on Saturday, But Sunday shal be free— To Churche I goe Arraied for show, And Colin walkes wyth me.
Uponn his Love
Who Bath’d withyn a Prettie Woodlande Poole:
Had I the Spoiles of Araby, ’Twou’d be The clearest Ill To surfeit thee wyth Jewellrie— ’Twere yett Forsakéd Stil. . .
For how availeth any Gem ’Gaynst thee, My dearest Girle— When thou in Beauty’s Diadem, Art sett— A naykéd Pearl.
Summer Noon
The golden-velvett Apricocks Doe grow Uponn the wall. Their sunn-kis’t chekes, as maydens, blushe To shewe Them ripe to fal.
Yett thou, my prettie Curlylockes, An I Sho’ld shayke thy tre— Wo’ldst thou remayne a Barren bush— Or sighe, And Blushe for me?
“See how the Quince”
See how the Quince doth hide her head Amid her shelter’d leaves— As coy as April Swallowes, fledd To neste withyn the Eaves. She, wyth the Sloe, the Damsonn red, The Figgs of Turkestan— Shal now unite, to holde the Dreade Of my Preservynge Pann.
His Swetehearte at the Fayre
Lytell vandal Vanitie Spent my golden Crowne For a linnen Pettycote And a velvett Gown. Chose a cloke of Cramoisie; Then, as yett more vaine, Lay’d-out my laste smal silver groate Uponn an Amber Chayn.
Lytell vandal Vanitie, Ti prefer thy Charmes, Feasting past, to have and hold Nayked in my arms. In suche swete disparity Sho’ld a Draft encline Thy prettie Body to be Cold— I’ll Cover thee wyth mine.
Reproofe to Colin
Ah lett me go! Ah, lett Me go— Why wo’ldst thou now beset Me so?
Thou plead’st soe long, I'm nigh To fall— Thou art soe strong And I Soe smal—
My Swete, my Dear, Thou’rt come Soe near— I fain wo’ld crie—but some Might hear!
Uponn Looking at Her Broider’d Arras, Cini Reflecteth:
Wwee I but stay’d A lytell Mayde Withyn my Father’s Tower, I sat to sewe this Tappestrie— Hour uponn hour.
Then, wyth the laste Smal flowre sett fast To frame its Border gaie, My Colin came to sue for me— Daye uponn daye.
And now we’re Wedd, Wyth Hearth and Steade, And Babies more than Deare— O, what a happie Life ‘twill be— Year uponn year.
The Fourth Booke
The Nightepiece to Colin
Before the Kine were milken I wore but shifte and shoon; But now, in tafftas silken Wyth broider’d rosebuds strewn, I fleet Tripp downe the oaken flight To greet My Love by candie-lighte.
Before the Owle shal hie him Whence lone the black Batt fled, My Love shal come to lye him Uponn a feather Bedd. Tho’t drift From May til Martinmas, Too swifte The silent Night must passe.
Colin Singeth:
See, from thy Presse I’ve tayken down Thy kirtle and thy russett gowne; Thy kerchief too, of finest Lawne— Soe robe thyself to greet The Dawne. The Sunne hath wak’d the humming bees And tip’t wyth golde the Cherrie tres; The Rooster croweth in the Hay To tel hys Hens how sweete Is Day.
The Throstie hath her Matins still’d. She fedd her Broode whyle Prewdence fil’d, An hour agone, our milkynge-paile — Methinketh I have Wedd A Snaile. For tho’ thy Spouse hath left thy side Thy prettie Heade thou yett wo'ldst hide, To Smile att me, wyth sleepic eys — O lytell Slugg-a-bedd, Arise!
July—and June—and Maye
Scarce waned A Year, since we were Wed; Whyle scarlett Poppys stain’d The corn— Firste Emblem of our Marriage Bedd, A prettie Girle was Borne.
The hour When bloom’d the scented Clove, There dawn’d a secunde Flowre Of Joy— Pledge that our Love yet stronger throve, A lytell lustie Boy.
Now, ere ‘The Meadowswete doth fade, A thyrd shal come to bear Our name— Or be this Babie son or mayde, Twere welcom’d stil the same.
No Faultes in Love
My Love wo'ld sacke A towne To gett my Smile; But sweares, alack! My Frown Doth yet beguile.
Whate’er I speke Or do He will adore; And doth but seeke To woo Me stil the more.
Chief Happinesse in Sleepe
Then sleepe. Ye may, An ye’ll be wyse; Night follows daye To Paradise. One brief respite From toile and pain— Daye follows night To Earth agayne.
The Forsaken Mayden
From Midsummer to Martinmas I’ve wayted thee in vaine— Thou said’st, ere many days sho’ld pass, That thou wou’dst come agayne; From Ladydaye to Lammastide I’ve sewn my shiftes for thee— Thou said’st, that I sho’ld be thy Bride— Hast thou forgotten me?
“Ah, whither goest thou?”
“Ah whither goest thou, Lover, my Lover?” “That golde for thee enow I may discover.”
“I wo’ld but have thy heart, Wyth my heart beating—” “Then shal we never part, Sweeting, my Sweeting.”
Evensong
The Babie in his carven Cradell sleepeth As, tired wyth plaie, his laughen eys must close; One lytell hand beneath his pinke cheke creepeth— More soft and dewy than a half-shut rose— The other ’mid his Curles stil seeketh how To keepe the errant tendrils from his browe.
His Brother to the threshold bravelie crawleth Acrosse the crooked floor of worne grey stone; And, holden to the Doore for fear he falleth, Moste sturdilie shal strive to stand alone— And thus Surpryse, as mounts the Evening Star, His wel-lov’d Sire who cometh from afar.
Their prettie Sister to my kirtle clingeth And, tiptoe on an oaken stoole, is ledd To reach the Presse, from whych wyth care she bringeth The yellow Bowles for Supper milk-and-breade; About the house, her lytell taskes she beares Soe wondrous Proudlie for her thre short years.
Then when at laste the crimson Sunnsett dieth, Together shal we kisse eache curlie heade; And smoothe cache Piilowe where eache Babie lyeth, Before we secke our owne four-posted Bedd— To wayte in Sleepe, as tranquillie as they, The golden Dawning of another Daye.
Defenders of the Peace
Where rafters frown Over cobbl’d streete, Withyn the Towne The Watchemen meet; But Godd keepes guard Among the Hills And Meadows star’d Wyth Daffadils.
The Babie wo’ld not be Reprov’d
An thou wo’ldst chide, I’ll runn awaie; To plaie and hide And dance all day. I’ll roam the fieldes and forests thro’ And Feaste off blackberys and dewe.
Untill the Owle Doth holde his sway— When fearsome Ghoul And Beaste do preye— I’ll creepe back home agayne to thee— Thou’lt be too Joy’d to punnishe me!
The Babie loth to goe to Bedd
Cini:“Ah, what is Love?”
And wash’d thy wooden spoon;
Thro’ chinken shutter peepeth forth
The yellowe crescent Moone.
The Babe in slumber lyeth;
’Tis past the Close of Daye—
Babie:“Yett the Nighte-hawke, Nighte-hawke flyeth—
O Prithee, lett me Stay!”
Cini:Uponn thy newe-mayk’t quillt I’ve sewen
Full seven patches more,
Yett stil to toye wyth sticke and stone
Thou’d creep about the floore.
Thy lytell Brother sleepeth;
’Tis time thou ceas’d thy plaie—
Babie:“Yett the Nighte-mouse, Nighte-mouse creepeth—
I Prithee, lett me Stay!”
Cini:The tal clocke standen by the Staire
Chim’d six a whyle agoe;
Now see! I’ve sett thy Shifte to air,
And comb’d thy Curles enow. Thy tallow cresset shineth
To lighte thee on thy way—
Babie:“Yett the Nighte-fox, Nighte-fox whineth—
O Prithee, lett me Stay!”
Cini:The Northwind waileth thro’ the Thatch,
And wendeth o’er the Loam—
Now harke! Thy Father tiftes the latch~
At laste he cometh Home.
Babie:“Twas but for that I wayted—
Now carrie Me to Bedd!”
The Envoy
The Envoy:
Who wo’ld not live as we, to prove The happinesse of Wedded Love? When Cini keepeth house and Stead Whyle Colin earnes the daylie Breade; And both doe strive, by wordes and deeds, To satisfie their Chyldren’s needes.
What Man co’ld buye wyth Moneys spent The blisse of Colin’s Hearts-content? What Queene wo’ld not enchange her crowne For Cini’s lytell Russett Gowne? Or Mayde renownce her barren Throne For one smal Babie of her owne.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1931.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1993, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 32 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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