She that to age her charms resigns, Though virtue much the change inclines, 'Tis sullied by necessity. 66 66 ROBERT HERRICK WAS author of a poetical volume published under the title of Hesperides," 1648, 8vo, which contains two little pieces, printed among Carew's poems, under the titles of "the Primrose," and "the Inquiry." Phillips, in his "Theatrum Poetarum," thinks him "not particularly influenced by any nymph or goddess, except his maid Pru:" but allows him to have shown occasionally a pretty flowery and pastoral gale of fancy," &c. Wood tells us (Ath. ii. 122) that he was a Londoner born, though of a Leicestershire family; elected fellow of All Souls' College, Oxford, from St. John's, but took no degree; that being patronized by the Earl of Exeter, he afterwards resided in Devonshire, much beloved, till, forced to withdraw, he retired to London, where he was still living, subsequent to the Restoration. For farther particulars, see the "Gentleman's Magazine" for 1796, p. 461. 645. To Virgins. HEAR, ye virgins, and I'll teach Rosamond was in a bower Kept, as Danae in a tower : Or those babies in your eyes, A Meditation for his Mistress. You are a tulip, seen to-day,— But, dearest, of so short a stay, That where you grew scarce man can say. You are a lovely July-flower, Yet one rude wind or ruffling shower You are a sparkling rose i' th' bud,Yet lost, ere that chaste flesh and blood Can show where you or grew, or stood. * You are a dainty violet, Yet wither'd, ere you can be set Within the virgin's coronet. You are the queen all flowers among,- The Bag of the Bee. [To be found also in " Wit a sporting in a pleasant Grove of new fancies," collected by H. B. 1657.] ABOUT the sweet bag of a bee Two Cupids fell at odds; And whose the pretty prize should be Which Venus hearing, thither came, Which done, to still their wanton1 cries, "the wantons"," in "Wit a sporting." To a Gentlewoman, objecting to him his grey hairs. Aм I despis'd because you say, Where such a rare carnation grew; Ah! then too late, close in your chamber keeping, It will be told That you are old By those true tears you're weeping. The Mad Maid's Song. GOOD-morrow to the day so fair! Good-morning, sir, to you! Good-morrow to mine own torn hair, Bedabbled with the dew! Good-morning to this primrose too! Good-morrow to each maid, |