His Age, Dedicated to His Peculiar Friend, Mr. John Wickes, under the Name of Posthumus by Robert Herrick

Ah, Posthumus! our years hence flyAnd leave no sound: nor piety,Or prayers, or vowCan keep the wrinkle from the brow;But we must on,As fate does lead or draw us; none,None, Posthumus, could e'er declineThe doom of cruel Proserpine.

The pleasing wife, the house, the groundMust all be left, no one plant foundTo follow thee,Save only the curst cypress-tree!--A merry mindLooks forward, scorns what's left behind;Let's live, my Wickes, then, while we may,And here enjoy our holiday.

We've seen the past best times, and theseWill ne'er return; we see the seas,And moons to wane,But they fill up their ebbs again;But vanish'd man,Like to a lily lost, ne'er can,Ne'er can repullulate, or bringHis days to see a second spring.

But on we must, and thither tend,Where Ancus and rich Tullus blendTheir sacred seed;Thus has infernal Jove decreed;We must be made,Ere long a song, ere long a shade.Why then, since life to us is short,Let's make it full up by our sport.

Crown we our heads with roses then,And 'noint with Tyrian balm; for whenWe two are dead,The world with us is buried.Then live we freeAs is the air, and let us beOur own fair wind, and mark each oneDay with the white and lucky stone.

We are not poor, although we haveNo roofs of cedar, nor our braveBaiae, nor keepAccount of such a flock of sheep;Nor bullocks fedTo lard the shambles; barbels bredTo kiss our hands; nor do we wishFor Pollio's lampreys in our dish.

If we can meet, and so confer,Both by a shining salt-cellar,And have our roof,Although not arch'd, yet weather-proof,And cieling free,From that cheap candle-baudery;We'll eat our bean with that full mirthAs we were lords of all the earth.

Well, then, on what seas we are tost,Our comfort is, we can't be lost.Let the winds driveOur bark, yet she will keep aliveAmidst the deeps;'Tis constancy, my Wickes, which keepsThe pinnace up; which, though she errsI' th' seas, she saves her passengers.

Say, we must part; sweet mercy blessUs both i' th' sea, camp, wilderness!Can we so farStray, to become less circularThan we are now?No, no, that self-same heart, that vowWhich made us one, shall ne'er undo,Or ravel so, to make us two.

Live in thy peace; as for myself,When I am bruised on the shelfOf time, and showMy locks behung with frost and snow;When with the rheum,The cough, the pthisic, I consumeUnto an almost nothing; then,The ages fled, I'll call again,

And with a tear compare these lastLame and bad times with those are past,While Baucis by,My old lean wife, shall kiss it dry;And so we'll sitBy th' fire, foretelling snow and slitAnd weather by our aches, grownNow old enough to be our own

True calendars, as puss's earWash'd o'er 's, to tell what change is near;Then to assuageThe gripings of the chine by age,I'll call my youngIulus to sing such a songI made upon my Julia's breast,And of her blush at such a feast.

Then shall he read that flower of mineEnclosed within a crystal shrine;A primrose next;A piece then of a higher text;For to begetIn me a more transcendant heat,Than that insinuating fireWhich crept into each aged sire

When the fair Helen from her eyesShot forth her loving sorceries;At which I'll rearMine aged limbs above my chair;And hearing it,Flutter and crow, as in a fitOf fresh concupiscence, and cry,'No lust there's like to Poetry.'

Thus frantic, crazy man, God wot,I'll call to mind things half-forgot;And oft betweenRepeat the times that I have seen;Thus ripe with tears,And twisting my Iulus' hairs,Doting, I'll weep and say, 'In truth,Baucis, these were my sins of youth.'

Then next I'Il cause my hopeful lad,If a wild apple can be had,To crown the hearth;Lar thus conspiring with our mirth;Then to infuseOur browner ale into the cruse;Which, sweetly spiced, we'll first carouseUnto the Genius of the house.

Then the next health to friends of mine.Loving the brave Burgundian wine,High sons of pith,Whose fortunes I have frolick'd with;Such as could wellBear up the magic bough and spell;And dancing 'bout the mystic Thyrse,Give up the just applause to verse;

To those, and then again to thee,We'll drink, my Wickes, until we bePlump as the cherry,Though not so fresh, yet full as merryAs the cricket,The untamed heifer, or the pricket,Until our tongues shall tell our ears,We're younger by a score of years.

Thus, till we see the fire less shineFrom th' embers than the kitling's eyne,We'll still sit up,Sphering about the wassail cup,To all those timesWhich gave me honour for my rhymes;The coal once spent, we'll then to bed,Far more than night bewearied.