Thomas Humphry Ward, ed. The English Poets. 1880–1918.rnVol. II. The Seventeenth Century: Ben Jonson to Dryden

Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

Ode to Endymion Porter

NOT all thy flushing suns are set,

Herrick, as yet;

Nor doth this far-drawn hemisphere

Frown and look sullen everywhere;

Days may conclude in nights, and suns may rest

As dead within the West,

Yet the next morn regild the fragrant East.

Alas! for me! that I have lost

E’en all, almost!

Sunk is my sight, set is my sun,

And all the loom of life undone;

The staff, the elm, the prop, the sheltering wall

Whereon my vine did crawl,

Now, now blown down; needs must the old stock fall.

Yet, Porter, while thou keep’st alive,

In death I thrive,

And like a Phoenix re-aspire

From out my nard and funeral fire,

And as I prime my feathered youth, so I

Do marvell how I could die

When I had thee, my chief preserver, by.

I’m up, I’m up, and bless that hand,

Which makes me stand

Now as I do, and, but for thee,

I must confess, I could not be;

The debt is paid, for he who doth resign

Thanks to the generous Vine,

Invites fresh grapes to fill his press with wine.