Robert Herrick (1591–1674)

GOE, happy Rose, and interwove

With other flowers, bind my love.

Tell her, too, she must not be,

Longer flowing, longer free,

That so oft has fettered me.

Say, if she’s fretful, I have bands

Of pearl and gold, to bind her hands;

Tell her, if she struggle still,

I have myrtle rods at will,

For to tame, though not to kill.

Take thou my blessing thus, and goe

And tell her this, but doe not so,

Lest a handsome anger flye

Like a lightning from her eye,

And burn thee up, as well as I.