Robert Herrick


English Lyric Poet and Cleric

Author Quotes

But here's the sunset of a tedious day, these two asleep are; I'll but be undrest, And so to bed. Pray wish us all good rest.

Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o'ercome When no force else can get the masterdom.

Her eyes the glow-worme lend thee, The shooting starres attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

If little labour. little are our gaines: Man's fortunes are according to his paines.

Let's live with that small pittance which we have; Who covets more is evermore a slave.

Now is the time for mirth, nor cheek or tongue be dumb; for with the flowery earth the golden pomp is come.

Small griefs find tongues: full casques are ever found To give, if any, yet but little sound, Deep waters noyselesse are; and this we know, That chiding streams betray small depth below.

The readiness of doing doth expresse No other but the doer's willingnesse.

Tis sin, nay, profanation to keep in.

When I a verse shall make, know I have prayed thee, for old religion's sake, Saint Ben, to aid me.

You say to me-wards your affection's strong; pray love me little, so you love me long.

All things decay with time; the forest sees The growth and downfall of her aged trees: That timber tall, which threescore lustres stood The proud dictator of the state-like wood ? I mean the sov'reign of all plants, the oak, Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.

But if that Golden Age would come again, and Charles here rule as he before did reign;

For a Benizon to fall on our meat, and on us all.

Her pretty feet like snails did creep A little out, and then, as if they played at Bo-peep did soon draw in agen.

In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part without the sweet concurrence of the heart.

Like will to like; each creature loves his kind. Chaste words proceed still from a bashful mind.

O native country, repossessed by thee! For, rather than I'll to the West return, I'll beg of thee first here to have mine urn. Weak I am grown, and must in short time fall; give thou my sacred relics burial.

So smooth, so sweet, so silvery, is thy voice as, could they hear, the damned would make no noise, but listen to thee (walking in thy chamber) melting melodious words to lutes of amber.

The starres of the night Will lend thee their light, Like tapers cleare without number.

Tis sweet to think on what was hard t'endure.

When one is past, another care we have; Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.

And after they have shown their pride like you a while, they glide into the grave.

But ne'er the rose without the thorn.

For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave, I'le seek him in your eyes.

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English Lyric Poet and Cleric