Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 249. To the Western Wind SWEET western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair: Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me, And all beset with flowers. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 250. To Electra I DARE not ask a kiss, I dare not beg a smile, Lest having that, or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air That lately kissed thee. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 251. To Violets WELCOME, maids of honour! You do bring In the spring, And wait upon her. She has virgins many, Fresh and fair; Yet you are More sweet than any. You're the maiden posies, And so graced To be placed 'Fore damask roses. Yet, though thus respected, By-and-by Ye do lie, Poor girls, neglected. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 252. To Daffodils FAIR daffodils, we weep to see You haste away so soon; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attain'd his noon. Stay, stay Until the hasting day Has run But to the evensong; And, having pray'd together, we Will go with you along. We have short time to stay, as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay, As you, or anything. We die As your hours do, and dry Away Like to the summer's rain; Or as the pearls of morning's dew, Ne'er to be found again. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 253. To Blossoms FAIR pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do ye fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, And so to bid good night? 'Twas pity Nature brought you forth Merely to show your worth And lose you quite. But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Their end, though ne'er so brave: And after they have shown their pride Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 254. The Primrose ASK me why I send you here This sweet Infanta of the year? Ask me why I send to you This primrose, thus bepearl'd with dew? I will whisper to your ears:-- The sweets of love are mix'd with tears. Ask me why this flower does show So yellow-green, and sickly too? Ask me why the stalk is weak And bending (yet it doth not break)? I will answer:--These discover What fainting hopes are in a lover. Robert Herrick. 1591-1674 255. The Funeral Rites of the Rose