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 mea… - Robert Herrick

Sweet, be not proud of those two eyes
Which starlike sparkle in their skies;
Nor be you proud that you can see
All hearts your captives, yours yet free

Sur lui-même

Perdu au monde, à moi-même perdu,
Seul, me voici tout de marbre vêtu,
Ni vu, ni perçu, de silence imbu.

[On Himselfe

Lost to the world ; lost to myself ; alone
Here now I rest under this Marble stone :
In depth of silence, heard, and seen of none.]

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.
I write of youth, of love, and have access
By these to sing of cleanly wantonness;
I sing of dews, of rains, and piece by piece
Of balm, of oil, of spice and ambergris;
I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write
How roses first came red and lilies white;
I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing
The Court of Mab, and of the Fairy King;
I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)
Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.