. . . Then let me lye
Entranc'd, and lost confusedly;
And by thy musick stricken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a lute.
Herrick never married. His modest Devonshire establishment was managed
by a maidservant named Prudence Baldwin. "Fate likes fine names," says
Lowell. That of Herrick's maid-of-all-work was certainly a happy meeting
of gentle vowels and consonants, and has had the good fortune to be
embalmed in the amber of what may be called a joyous little threnody:
In this little urne is laid
Prewdence Baldwin, once my maid;
From whose happy spark here let
Spring the purple violet.
Herrick addressed a number of poems to her before her death, which
seems to have deeply touched him in his loneliness. We shall not allow a
pleasing illusion to be disturbed by the flippancy of an old writer who
says that "Prue was but indifferently qualified to be a tenth muse." She
was a faithful handmaid, and had the merit of causing Herrick in this
octave to strike a note of sincerity not usual with him:
These summer birds did with thy master stay
The times of warmth, but then they flew away,
Leaving their poet, being now grown old,
Expos'd to all the coming winter's cold.
Pages:
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150