As he writes down the list, he himself realises to what an extent his life in the country is a life of make-believe among toys: Which are But toys to give my heart some ease: Where care Ne’er is, slight things do lightly please. His mistresses are, however, a thing apart from this happy farmyard. When he goes to the farmyard for a simile in praise of Julia, the effect is amusing, but it is a little lower than love-poetry: Fain would I kiss my Julia’s dainty leg, Which is as white and hairless as an egg. Some critics have doubted whether Herrick ever was actually in love. They regard his Julias and Antheas and Lucias as but an array of Delf shepherdesses that every poet of the day was expected to keep on his table. This may be true of most of the ladies, but Julia seems real enough. Herrick was obviously incapable of the passion of Keats or Shelley or Browning, but we may take it that he had been enchained and enchanted by the lady with the black eyes and the replica of his own double chin: Black and rolling is her eye, Double-chinn’d, and forehead high; Lips she has, all ruby red, Cheeks like cream enclareted; And a nose that is the grace And proscenium of her face. It is not a very attractive picture, and it is characteristic of Herrick that he can paint Julia’s clothes better than he can paint her face. It was an enchained and enchanted man who wrote those lines that are far too well known to quote and far too charming to refrain from quoting: Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes. Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me. This is no figmentary picture. The songs to Julia--most of all, the glorious _Night Piece_--are songs of experience. Herrick may not have loved Julia well enough to marry her, even if she had been willing, but he loved her well enough to write good verses. He could probably have said farewell to any woman as philosophically as he said farewell to sack. He was a cautious man, and a predestined bachelor. He was, indeed, a man of no very profound feeling. There is no deep tide of emotion making his verse musical. He knew love and he knew regret, but not tragically. If he wept to see the daffodils haste away so soon, we may be sure that he brushed away his tears at the sound of the dinner-bell and forgot the premature death of the flowers in cheerful conversation with his housekeeper, Prue. This does not mean that his mood was insincere; it does not mean that in _To Daffodils_ he did not give immortal and touching expression to one of the universal sorrows of men. He comes nearer the grave music of poetry here than in any of his other poems. But the _Memento mori_ that runs through his verses is the _Memento mori_ of a banqueter, not of a sufferer. It is the mournfulness of a heart that has no intention of breaking.