On Himself.

A poem by Robert Herrick

The work is done: young men and maidens, set
Upon my curls the myrtle coronet
Washed with sweet ointments: thus at last I come
To suffer in the Muses' martyrdom;
But with this comfort, if my blood be shed,
The Muses will wear blacks when I am dead.

Reader Comments

Tell us what you think of 'On Himself.' by Robert Herrick

comments powered by Disqus

Home | Search | About this website | Contact | Privacy Policy