And he smiling said:
“Come!”
So, lovingly we parted and the enchanted place grew small and dim, receding behind me, and with fleshly eyes never again shall I see the clear running of Dean Burn and the lush meadows where fair Margery stroked me a syllabub of cowslip cream. But Mr. Herrick shall I see, for his dreams are not as other men’s and he comes, I know, sooner or later, to London.
Now what all this means, I cannot know but may guess, and on that I say no more. Let each man read it as he can. But never again tell me that Mr. Herrick is a loose liver because his Muse dwells like a dove in the warmth of ladies’ bosoms, for I know better.
“Jocund his Muse was, but his life was chaste,” is the self-chosen Finis to his book, and well it may.
And for a last gift he slipt into my hand at parting his latest verses or effusion to Madam Julia, whose stately pacing haunts me yet and ever will.
“This day, my Julia, thou must make
For Mistress Bride the wedding cake.
Knead but the dough and it will be
To paste of almonds turned by thee.