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Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick

To the Western Wind

SWEET western wind, whose luck it is,
   Made rival with the air,
To give Perenna’s lip a kiss,
   And fan her wanton hair:
 
Bring me but one, I’ll promise thee,
   Instead of common showers,
Thy wings shall be embalm’d by me,
   And all beset with flowers.

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Though clock, To tell how night draws hence, I’… A cock I have to sing how day draws on: I have
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Play, Phoebus, on thy lute, And we will sit all mute; By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire. Hark, hark! the God does play!
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CHERRY-RIPE, ripe, ripe, I cr… Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There Where my Julia’s lips do smile;



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