I read in Herrick's verses,
I could see
The spirit of each tree,
Each quality that he rehearses,
Bodily.

I saw bright Herrick's flowers,
With which he binds the hours;
His rural fare,
A ripe and russet literature,
And sweet as nuts his songs to Larr,
And of himself rich lines a store.

When a pure wit he lauds,
'T is in such sense,
That no pretence
Of being less the verse affords;
Herrick is good as best,
And has the fact confest.

Then, Herrick, from thy blood
I draw some fire;
Better my desire,
And be my muse as good
As thine,
Who came of race divine.