Robert Herrick

Corinna's going a Maying

Get up, get up for shame, the Blooming Morne
Upon her wings presents the god unshorne.
                    See how Aurora throwes her faire
                    Fresh—quilted colours through the aire:
                    Get up, sweet—Slug—a—bed, and see
                    The Dew—bespangling Herbe and Tree.
Each Flower has wept, and bow’d toward the East,
Above an houre since; yet you not drest,
                    Nay! not so much as out of bed?
                    When all the Birds have Mattens seyd,
                    And sung their thankful Hymnes: 'tis sin,
                    Nay, profanation to keep in,
When as a thousand Virgins on this day,
Spring, sooner than the Lark, to fetch in May.
 
Rise; and put on your Foliage, and be seene
To come forth, like the Spring—time, fresh and greene;
                    And sweet as Flora. Take no care
                    For Jewels for your Gowne, or Haire:
                    Feare not; the leaves will strew
                    Gemms in abundance upon you:
Besides, the childhood of the Day has kept,
Against you come, some Orient Pearls unwept:
                    Come, and receive them while the light
                    Hangs on the Dew—locks of the night:
                    And Titan on the Eastern hill
                    Retires himselfe, or else stands still
Till you come forth. Wash, dresse, be briefe in praying:
Few Beads are best, when once we goe a Maying.
 
Come, my Corinna, come; and comming, marke
How each field turns a street; each street a Parke
                    Made green, and trimm’d with trees: see how
                    Devotion gives each House a Bough,
                    Or Branch: Each Porch, each doore, ere this,
                    An Arke a Tabernacle is
Made up of white—thorn neatly enterwove;
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 obay
                    The Proclamation made for May:
And sin no more, as we have done, by staying;
But my Corinna, come, let’s goe a Maying.
 
There’s not a budding Boy, or Girle, this day,
But is got up, and gone to bring in May.
                    A deale of Youth, ere this, is come
                    Back, and with White—thorn laden home.
                    Some have dispatcht their Cakes and Creame,
                    Before that we have left to dreame:
And some have wept, and woo’d, and plighted Troth,
And chose their Priest, ere we can cast off sloth:
                    Many a green—gown has been given;
                    Many a kisse, both odde and even:
                    Many a glance too has been sent
                    From out the eye, Loves Firmament:
Many a jest told of the Keyes betraying
This night, and Locks pickt, yet w’are not a Maying.
 
Come, let us goe, while we are in our prime;
And take the harmlesse follie of the time.
                    We shall grow old apace, and die
                    Before we know our liberty.
                    Our life is short; and our dayes run
                    As fast away as do’s the Sunne:
And as a vapour, or a drop of raine
Once lost, can ne’r be found againe:
                    So when or you or I are made
                    A fable, song, or fleeting shade;
                    All love, all liking, all delight
                    Lies drown’d with us in endlesse night.
Then while time serves, and we are but decaying;
Come, my Corinna, come, let’s goe a Maying.
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