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

To live merrily, and to trust to Good Verses.
Now
is the time for mirth,
Nor cheek, or tongue be dumbe:
For with the flowrie earth,
The golden pomp is come.
The golden Pomp is come;
For now each tree do's weare
(Made of her Pap and Gum)
Rich beads of Amber here.
Now raignes the Rose, and now
Th'Arabian Dew besmears
My uncontrolled brow,
And my retorted haires.
Homer, this Health to thee,
In Sack of such a kind,
That it wo'd make thee see,
Though thou wert ne'r so blind.
Next, Virgil, Ile call forth,
To pledge this second Health
In Wine, whose each cup's worth
An Indian Common-wealth.
A Goblet next Ile drink
To Ovid; and suppose,
Made he the pledge, he'd think
The world had all one Nose.
Then this immensive cup
Of Aromatike wine,
Catullus, I quaffe up
To that Terce Muse of thine.
Page 65 of 72
Christmas Poetry By Robert Herrick