Poem by Robert Herrick

Upon Julia's Voice

When I thy singing next shall hear,
I'll wish I might turn all to ear,
To drink-in notes and numbers, such
As blessed souls can't hear too much
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute.

1. The Apron of Flowers
2. To Carnations: a Song
3. To Primroses Filled with Morning Dew
4. To Violets
5. To Daisies, Not to Shut so Soon

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