Come, my Corinna, come! and coming, mark How each field turns a street, each street a park Made green, and trimmed with trees: see how Devotion gives each house a bough Or branch: each porch, each door, ere this, An ark, a tabernacle is, Made up of white-thorn neatly interwove, As if here were those cooler shades of love. Can such delights be in the street And open fields, and we not see’t? Come, we’ll abroad: and let’s obey The proclamation made for May: And sin no more, as we have done, by staying: But, my Corinna, come! let’s go a-Maying. There’s not a budding boy or girl, this day, But is got up, and gone to bring in May. A deal of youth, ere this, is come Back, and with white-thorn laden home. Some have despatched their cakes and cream, Before that we have left to dream: And some have wept, and wooed, and plighted troth And chose their priest, ere we can cast off sloth: Many a green-gown has been given; Many a kiss, both odd and even: Many a glance, too, has been sent From out the eye, Love’s firmament: Many a jest told of the keys betraying This night, and locks picked:—Yet we’re not a-Maying. 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. GRACE FOR A CHILD HERE, a little child, I stand, Heaving up my either hand: Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, For a benison to fall On our meat and on our all. Amen. BEN JONSON 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 Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine. My Ben! Or come again Or send to us Thy wit’s great over-plus; 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. GEORGE HERBERT 1593–1632 HOLY BAPTISM