Epitaph
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood:
Who as soon fell fast asleep
As her little eyes did peep.
Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth that lightly covers her.
More poems by Robert Herrick
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To the Virgins
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day … -
To the Virgins, to make much of Time
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day … -
To the Willow-tree
Thou art to all lost love the best,
The only true plant found,
Wherewith young men and maids distrest, … -
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