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Robert Herrick · Barroco
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When I through all my many poems look,
And see yourself to beautify my book,
Methinks that only lustre doth appear
A light fulfilling all the region here.
Gild still with flames this firmament, and be
A lamp eternal to my poetry.
Which, if it now or shall hereafter shine,
'Twas by your splendour, lady, not by mine.
The oil was yours; and that I owe for yet:
He pays the half who does confess the debt.
← To the Most Learned, Wise, and Arch-antiquary, M. John SeldenTo the Nightingale and Robin Redbreast →
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