Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

WHEN I love, as some have told,

Love I shall when I am old,

O ye Graces! make me fit

For the welcoming of it.

Clean my rooms as temples be,

To entertain that deity;

Give me words wherewith to woo,

Suppling and successful too;

Winning postures, and withal,

Manners each way musical;

Sweetnesse to allay my sour

And unsmooth behavior:

For I know you have the skill

Vines to prune, though not to kill;

And of any wood ye see,

You can make a Mercury.