Fly to my mistress, pretty pilfering bee,
And say thou bring'st this honey-bag from me;
When on her lip thou hast thy sweet dew placed,
Mark if her tongue but slyly steal a taste;
If so, we live; if not, with mournful hum,
Toll forth my death; next, to my burial come.
More verses by Robert Herrick
- To His Sweet Saviour
- The Bubble: A Song
- Good Precepts, Or Counsel
- To The Genius Of His House
- To Primroses Filled With Morning Dew