Now, Now, The Mirth Comes - The Hymns and Carols of Christmas

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“Now, Now The Mirth Comes” 8. Well then, on what Seas we are tost, Our comfort is, we can't be lost. Let the winds drive Our Barke; yet she will keepe alive Amidst the deepes; 'Tis constancy (my Wickes) which keepes The Pinnace up; which though she erres I'th' Seas, she saves her passengers. 9. Say, we must part (sweet mercy blesse Us both i'th' Sea, Camp, Wildernesse) Can we so farre Stray, to become lesse circular, Then we are now? No, no, that selfe same heart, that vow, Which made us one, shall ne'r undoe; Or ravell so, to make us two. 10. Live in thy peace; as for my selfe, When I am bruised on the Shelfe Of Time, and show My locks behung with frost and snow: When with the reume, The cough, the ptisick, I consume Unto an almost nothing; then, The Ages fled, Ile call agen: 11. And with a teare compare these last Lame, and bad times, with those are past, While Baucis by, My old leane wife, shall kisse it dry: And so we'l sit By'th'fire, foretelling snow and slit, And weather by our aches, grown Now old enough to be our own Page 58 of 72
12. True Calenders, as Pusses eare Washt o're, to tell what change is neare Then to asswage The gripings of the chine by age; I'le call my young Iülus to sing such a song I made upon my Julia's brest; And of her blush at such a feast. 13. Then shall he read that flowre of mine Enclos'd within a christall shrine: A Primrose next; A piece, then of a higher text: For to beget In me a more transcendant heate, Then that insinuating fire, Which crept into each aged Sire. 14. When the faire Hellen, from her eyes, Shot forth her loving Sorceries: At which I'le reare Mine aged limbs above my chaire: And hearing it, Flutter and crow, as in a fit Of fresh concupiscence, and cry, No lust theres like to Poetry. 15. Thus frantick crazie man (God wot) Ile call to mind things half forgot: And oft between, Repeat the Times that I have seen! Thus ripe with tears, And twisting my Iülus hairs; Doting, Ile weep and say (In Truth) Baucis, these were my sins of youth. Page 59 of 72 Christmas Poetry By Robert Herrick
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Now, Now, The Mirth Comes - The Hymns and Carols of Christmas

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