10 Then press'd she hard in every vein, Which from her kisses thrilled, And with the balm heal'd all its pain That from her hand distilled. 11 But yet this heart avoids me still, Will not by me be owned; But, fled to its physician's breast, There proudly sits enthroned. ROBERT HERRICK. This poet--a bird with tropical plumage, and norland sweetness of song --was born in Cheapside, London, in 1591. His father, was an eminent goldsmith. Herrick was sent to Cambridge; and having entered into holy orders, and being patronised by the Earl of Exeter, he was, in 1629, presented by Charles I. to the vicarage of Dean Prior, in Devonshire. Here he resided for twenty years, till ejected by the civil war. He seems all this time to have felt little relish either for his profession or parishioners. In the former, the cast of his poems shews that he must have been 'detained before the Lord;' and the latter he describes as a 'wild, amphibious race,' rude almost as 'salvages,' and 'churlish as the seas.' When he quitted his charge, he became an author at the mature age of fifty-six--publishing first, in 1647, his 'Noble Numbers; or, Pious Pieces;' and next, in 1648, his 'Hesperides; or, Works both Human and Divine of Robert Herrick, Esq.'--his ministerial prefix being now laid aside. Some of these poems were sufficiently unclerical--being wild and licentious in cast--although he himself alleges that his life was, sexually at least, blameless. Till the Restoration he lived in Westminster, supported by the rich among the Royalists, and keeping company with the popular dramatists and poets. It would seem that he had been in the habit of visiting London previously, while still acting as a clergyman, and had become a boon companion of Ben Jonson. Hence his well-known lines-- 'Ah, Ben! Say how or when Shall we, thy guests, Meet at those lyric feasts, Made at the "Sun," The "Dog," the "Triple Tun," Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad? And yet each verse of thine Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us, Thy wit's great overplus. But teach us yet Wisely to husband it; Lest we that talent spend, And having once brought to an end That precious stock, the store Of such a wit, the world should have no more.'