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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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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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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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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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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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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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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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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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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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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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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