Quote

What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Love
Approve
Cement
Glue
Hug
Kiss
Kissing
Sweet
Lime
Sure
Limes

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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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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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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
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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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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!
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A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine, As my small cruse best fits my little wine.
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And as this round (ring) is nowhere found to flaw, or else to sever. So let our love as endless prove and pure as gold forever.
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Know when to speak - for many times it brings danger, to give the best advice to kings.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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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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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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Let wealth come in by comely thrift, And not by any sordid shift 'T is haste Makes waste Extremes have still their fault. Who gripes too hard the dry and slipp'ry sand, Holds none at all, or little, in his hand.
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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Robert Herrick