English poem

On Himself.

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.

More by Robert Herrick

On Himself.
On Himself.
On Himself.
On Himself.
On Himself.
On His Book.
On Joan.
On Julia's Breath.

All 1426 poems by Robert Herrick