TO PRIMROSES, FILLED WITH MORNING DEW. WHY do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears Alas! Speak grief in you, Who were but born Just as the modest morn ye have not known that shower Nor felt the unkind Breath of a blasting wind; Nor are ye worn with years, Or warped, as we, Who think it strange to see Such pretty flowers, like to orphans young, Speak, whimpering younglings! and make known The reason why Ye droop and weep. Is it for want of sleep, Or childish lullaby? Or that ye have not seen as yet The violet? Or brought a kiss From that sweetheart to this? TO BLOSSOMS. No, no; this sorrow, shown By your tears shed, Would have this lecture read: "That things of greatest, so of meanest worth, Conceived with grief are, and with tears brought forth." ROBERT HERRICK. 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, What! were ye born to be An hour or half's delight, But you are lovely leaves, where we May read how soon things have Like you awhile, they glide Into the grave. ROBERT HERRICK. TO DAFFODILS. FAIR daffodils, we weep to see As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained his noon: Stay, stay Until the hastening day Has run But to the even-song; And, having prayed together, we We have short time to stay as you; As quick a growth to meet decay, We die, As your hours do; and dry Away Like to the Summer's rain, Or as the pearls of morning dew: Ne'er to be found again. ROBERT HERRICK. How's my boy-my boy?" "What's your boy's name, good wife, And in what good ship sailed he?" He that went to sea; What care I for the ship, sailor? HOW'S MY BOY? "You come back from sea, And not know my John? I might as well have asked some landsman. Yonder down in the town; There's not an ass in all the parish But he knows my John. "How's my boy—my boy? Brass buttons or no, sailor, Anchor and crown or no. 6 Sure his ship was the Jolly Briton."" "Speak low, woman, speak low!" "And why should I speak low, sailor, About my own boy John? If I was loud as I am proud I'd sing him over the town. Why should I speak low, sailor?" "That good ship went down." "How's my boy- my boy? What care I for the ship, sailor; I was never aboard her. Be she afloat or be she aground, Sinking or swimming, I'll be bound I say, how's my John?" "Every man on board went down, Every man aboard her." |