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

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Long
Love
Wards
Life
Affection
Pray
Praying
Strong
Littles
Little

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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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When the artless doctor sees No one hope, but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When his potion and his pill, Has, or none, or little skill, Meet for nothing, but to kill Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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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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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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It takes great wit and interest and energy to be happy. The pursuit of happiness is a great activity. One must be open and alive. It is the greatest feat man has to accomplish.
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Then be not coy, but use your time And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
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Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be,Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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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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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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.
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