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So when or you or I are made A fable, song, or fleeting shade All love, all liking, all delight Lies drowned with us in endless night. Then while time serves, and we are but decaying Come, my Corinna, come, let's go a Maying.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Lies
Drowned
Lying
Fables
Song
Liking
Night
Serves
Come
Fleeting
Made
Shade
Time
Endless
Decaying
Love
Delight
Fable

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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction.
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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.
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Feed him ye must, whose food fills you. And that this pleasure is like raine, Not sent ye for to drowne your paine, But for to make it spring againe.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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I dare not ask a kiss I dare not beg a smile Lest having that or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air, That lately kissed thee.
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A winning wave, (deserving note.) In the tempestuous petticote, A careless shoe-string, in whose tye I see a wilde civility,-- Doe more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick