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I, who have favour'd many, come to be Grac'd now, at last, or glorified by thee, Lo! I, the lyric prophet, who have set On many a head the delphic coronet, Come unto thee for laurel, having spent My wreaths on those who little gave or lent. Give me the daphne, that the world may know it, Whom they neglected thou hast crown'd a poet. A city here of heroes I have made Upon the rock whose firm foundation laid, Shall never shrink; where, making thine abode, Live thou a Selden, that's a demi-god. Daphne, i.e., the laurel

Thou shalt not all die; for, while love's fire shines Upon his altar, men shall read thy lines, And learn'd musicians shall, to honour Herrick's Fame and his name, both set and sing his lyrics.

Wrinkles no more are or no less Than beauty turned to sourness.