Robert Herrick

When I behold a forest spread With silken trees upon thy head; And when I see that other dress Of flowers set in comeliness; When I behold another grace In the ascent of curious lace, Which, like a pinnacle, doth shew The top, and the top-gallant too; Then, when I see thy tresses bound Into an oval, square, or round, And knit in knots far more than I. Can tell by tongue, or True-love tie; Next, when those lawny films I see Play with a wild civility; And all those airy silks to flow, Alluring me, and tempting so-- I must confess, mine eye and heart Dotes less on nature than on art.

The mellow touch of music most doth wound The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.

While fates permit us, let's be merry; Pass all we must the fatal ferry; And this our life, too, whirls away, With the rotation of the day.

Great men by small means oft are overthrown; He's lord of thy life, who contemns his own.

Chorus.

What sweeter music can we bring, Than a Carol, for to sing The Birth of this our heavenly King? Awake the Voice! Awake the String! Heart, Ear, and Eye, and every thing Awake! the while the active Finger Runs division with the Singer.

From the Flourish they came to the Song.

Voice 1: Dark and dull night, fly hence away, And give the honor to this Day, That sees December turn'd to May.

Voice 2: If we may ask the reason, say: The why, and wherefore all things here Seem like the Spring-time fo the year?

Voice 3: Why does the chilling Winter's morn Smile, like a field beset with corn? Or smell, like to a mead new-shorn, Thus, on the sudden?

Voice 4: Come and see The cause, why things thus fragrant be: 'Tis He is born, whose quick'ning Birth Gives life and luster, public mirth, To Heaven and the under-Earth.

Chorus: We see Him come, and know Him ours, Who, with His Sun-shine, and His Showers, Turns all the patient ground to flowers.

Voice 1: The Darling of the World is come, And fit it is, we find a room To welcome Him.

Voice 2: The nobler part Of all the house here, is the Heart,

Chorus: Which we will give Him; and bequeath This Holly and this Ivy Wreath, To do Him honor; who's our King, And Lord of all this Revelling.

Wanton wenches do not bring For my hairs black colouring : For my locks, girls, let 'em be Grey or white, all's one to me.

Sweet Amarillis, by a spring's Soft and soul-melting murmurings, Slept; and thus sleeping, thither flew A Robin-red-breast; who at view, Not seeing her at all to stir, Brought leaves and moss to cover her: But while he, perking, there did pry About the arch of either eye, The lid began to let out day,-- At which poor Robin flew away; And seeing her not dead, but all disleaved, He chirpt for joy, to see himself deceived.

These fresh beauties, we can prove, Once were virgins, sick of love, Turn'd to flowers: still in some, Colours go and colours come.