Quote

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.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Littles
Cold
Little
Stand
Children
Either
Heaving
Hand
Amen
Child
Lift
Though
Lifts
Fall
Meat
Hands
Thee

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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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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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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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Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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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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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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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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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.
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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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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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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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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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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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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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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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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