When that day comes, whose evening says I'm gone Unto that watery desolation; Devoutly to thy Closet-gods then pray, That my wing'd ship may meet no Remora. Those deities which circum-walk the seas, And look upon our dreadful passages, Will from all dangers re-deliver me, For one drink-offering poured out by thee, Mercy and Truth live with thee! and forbear, In my short absence, to unsluice a tear; But yet for love's-sake, let thy lips do this,-- Give my dead picture one engendering kiss; Work that to life, and let me ever dwell In thy remembrance, Julia. So farewell. 100. HIS LAST REQUEST TO JULIA I have been wanton, and too bold, I fear, To chafe o'er-much the virgin's cheek or ear;-- Beg for my pardon, Julia! he doth win Grace with the gods who's sorry for his sin. That done, my Julia, dearest Julia, come, And go with me to chuse my burial room: My fates are ended; when thy Herrick dies, Clasp thou his book, then close thou up his eyes. 101. THE TRANSFIGURATION Immortal clothing I put on So soon as, Julia, I am gone To mine eternal mansion. Thou, thou art here, to human sight Clothed all with incorrupted light; --But yet how more admir'dly bright Wilt thou appear, when thou art set In thy refulgent thronelet, That shin'st thus in thy counterfeit! 102. LOVE DISLIKES NOTHING Whatsoever thing I see, Rich or poor although it be, --'Tis a mistress unto me. Be my girl or fair or brown, Does she smile, or does she frown; Still I write a sweet-heart down. Be she rough, or smooth of skin; When I touch, I then begin For to let affection in. Be she bald, or does she wear Locks incurl'd of other hair; I shall find enchantment there. Be she whole, or be she rent, So my fancy be content, She's to me most excellent. Be she fat, or be she lean; Be she sluttish, be she clean; I'm a man for every scene. 103. UPON LOVE I held Love's head while it did ache; But so it chanced to be, The cruel pain did his forsake, And forthwith came to me. Ai me! how shall my grief be still'd? Or where else shall we find One like to me, who must be kill'd For being too-too-kind? 104. TO DIANEME I could but see thee yesterday Stung by a fretful bee; And I the javelin suck'd away, And heal'd the wound in thee. A thousand thorns, and briars, and stings I have in my poor breast; Yet ne'er can see that salve which brings My passions any rest. As Love shall help me, I admire How thou canst sit and smile To see me bleed, and not desire To staunch the blood the while. If thou, composed of gentle mould, Art so unkind to me; What dismal stories will be told Of those that cruel be!