Robert Herrick

Maybe this world is another planet's hell.

Maybe this world is another planet's hell.

A winning wave, (deserving note.)
In the tempestuous petticote,
A careless shoe-string, in whose tye
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A winning wave, (deserving note.)
In the tempestuous petticote,
A careless shoe-string, in whose tye
I see a wilde civility,--
Doe more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.

Hell is no other but a soundlesse pit,
Where no one beame of comfort peeps in it.

Hell is no other but a soundlesse pit,
Where no one beame of comfort peeps in it.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
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I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers:
Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.
I sing of Maypoles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes,
Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.

Out did the meate, out did the frolick wine.

Out did the meate, out did the frolick wine.