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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.
Robert Herrick
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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Asked
Grew
Rubies
Nothing
Julia
Jewelry
Pointed
Finger
Lips
Fingers
More quotes by Robert Herrick
No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
Robert Herrick
In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Robert Herrick
In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
Robert Herrick
A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
Robert Herrick
Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
Robert Herrick
The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Robert Herrick
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
Robert Herrick
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
Robert Herrick
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.
Robert Herrick
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave, I'le seek him in your eyes.
Robert Herrick
Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
Robert Herrick
Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
Robert Herrick
Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
Robert Herrick
Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
Robert Herrick
Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
Robert Herrick
When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
Robert Herrick
Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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.
Robert Herrick