Come, let us go, while we are in our prime, And take the harmless folly of the time! We shall grow old apace, and die Before we know our liberty. Our life is short, and our days run As fast away as does the sun. And, as a vapour or a drop of rain, Once lost can ne'er be found again, So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade, All love, all liking, all delight, Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then, while time serves, and we are but decaying, Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a-Maying. _Herrick._ VIII TO ANTHEA WHO MAY COMMAND HIM ANYTHING Bid me to live, and I will live Thy Protestant to be; Or bid me love and I will give A loving heart to thee. A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free, As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to thee. Bid that heart stay, and it will stay To honour thy decree; Or bid it languish quite away, And 't shall do so for thee. Bid me to weep, and I will weep While I have eyes to see; And, having none, yet I will keep A heart to weep for thee. Bid me despair, and I'll despair Under that cypress-tree; Or bid me die, and I will dare E'en death to die for thee. Thou art my life, my love, my heart, The very eyes of me, And hast command of every part, To live and die for thee. _Herrick._ IX MEMENTO MORI Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright-- The bridal of the earth and sky-- The dew shall weep thy fall to-night, For thou must die. Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave, Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye, Thy root is ever in its grave, And thou must die. Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses, A box where sweets compacted lie, My music shows ye have your closes, And all must die. Only a sweet and virtuous soul Like seasoned timber never gives, But, though the whole world turn to coal, Then chiefly lives. _Herbert._ X THE KING OF KINGS The glories of our birth and state Are shadows, not substantial things: There is no armour against fate: Death lays his icy hand on kings: Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crookËd scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field, And plant fresh laurels when they kill, But their strong nerves at last must yield: They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath When they, pale captives, creep to death.