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 And while the wood-nymphs my cold corpse inter, Sing thou my dirge, sweet-warbling chorister! For epitaph, in foliage, next write this: Here, here the tomb of Robin Herrick is.

More discontents I never had Since I was born than here, Where I have been, and still am sad, In this dull Devonshire; Yet, justly too, I must confess I ne'er invented such Ennobled numbers for the press, Than where I loathed so much.

O earth! earth! earth! hear thou my voice, and be Loving and gentle for to cover me: Banish'd from thee I live, ne'er to return, Unless thou giv'st my small remains an urn.

Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones; come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile; There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.