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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Give
Score
Giving
Kiss
Add
Twenty
Twenties
Kissing
Hundred
Funny

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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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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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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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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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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say, Birds chuse their mates and couple too this day: But by their flight I never can devine When I shall couple with my valentine.
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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd before.
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The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup I'll drink to the garlands around it But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown'd it.
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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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