1. Among thy fancies, tell me this: What is the thing we call a kisse? 2. I shall resolve ye, what it is. It is a creature born and bred Between the lips, (all cherrie red,) By love and warme desires fed; _Chorus._--And makes more soft the bridal bed. 2. It is an active flame, that flies First to the babies of the eyes, pupils And charms them there with lullabies; _Chorus._--And stils the bride too, when she cries. 2. Then to the chin, the cheek, the eare It frisks and flyes; now here, now there; ’Tis now farre off, and then ’tis nere; _Chorus._--And here, and there, and every where. 1. Has it a speaking virtue?--2. Yes. 1. How speaks it, say?--2. Do you but this, Part your joyn’d lips, then speaks your kisse; _Chorus._--And this loves sweetest language is. 1. Has it a body?--2. Ay, and wings, With thousand rare encolourings; And as it flies, it gently sings, _Chorus._--Love honie yeelds, but never stings. _A TERNARY OF LITTLES, UPON A PIPKIN OF JELLY SENT TO A LADY_ A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine; As my small cruse best fits my little wine. A little seed best fits a little soil, A little trade best fits a little toil; As my small jar best fits my little oil. A little bin best fits a little bread, A little garland fits a little head; As my small stuff best fits my little shed. A little hearth best fits a little fire, A little chapel fits a little choir; As my small bell best fits my little spire. A little stream best fits a little boat, A little lead best fits a little float; As my small pipe best fits my little note. A little meat best fits a little belly, As sweetly, lady, give me leave to tell ye, This little pipkin fits this little jelly. Thomas Carew, Edmund Waller, Sir John Suckling and Richard Lovelace all followed more or less in Herrick’s footsteps, and though each possessed what is called a pretty wit, they were not primarily humorous writers. A few poems are given, perhaps of more lyric than witty value. RICHARD LOVELACE _SONG_ Why should you swear I am forsworn, Since thine I vowed to be? Lady, it is already morn, And ’twas last night I swore to thee That fond impossibility. Have I not loved thee much and long, A tedious twelve hours’ space? I must all other beauties wrong, And rob thee of a new embrace, Could I still dote upon thy face. Not but all joy in thy brown hair By others may be found; But I must search the black and fair, Like skilful mineralists that sound For treasure in unploughed-up ground.