People say Herrick was the last Elizabethan poet, but in this poem he goes the full Byron by suggesting his mistresses form a mystery cult to worship him. In Ars Magica if you pulled this off you’d complete apotheosis and become a daimon of some variety, but if you missed no-one would know because this could also be a faerie with a tear-drinking version of the Feast of the Dead virtue.
It is, like all poets demanding things of their fans, just that bit cringe-worthy.
TO HIS LOVELY MISTRESSES
One night i’th’ year, my dearest Beauties, come,
And bring those dew-drink-offerings to my tomb;
When thence ye see my reverend ghost to rise,
And there to lick th’ effused sacrifice,
Though paleness be the livery that I wear,
Look ye not wan or colourless for fear.
Trust me, I will not hurt ye, or once show
The least grim look, or cast a frown on you;
Nor shall the tapers, when I’m there, burn blue.
This I may do, perhaps, as I glide by,—
Cast on my girls a glance, and loving eye;
Or fold mine arms, and sigh, because I’ve lost
The world so soon, and in it, you the most:
—Than these, no fears more on your fancies fall,
Though then I smile, and speak no words at all.
Games From Folktales 