ROBERT HERRICK

Thou power that canst sever From me this ill, And quickly still, Though thou not kill My fever.

Thou sweetly canst convert the same

From a consuming fire Into a gentle licking flame, And make it thus expire. Then make me weep My pains asleep ; And give me such reposes That I, poor I, May think thereby I live and die 'Mongst roses.

Fall on me like the silent dew, Or like those maiden showers Which, by the peep of day, do strew A baptim o'er the flowers. Melt, melt my pains With thy soft strains; That, having ease me given, With full delight I leave this light, And take my flight For Heaven.

�� �