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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Abstinence
Defensive
Diseases
Fence
Strongest
Sex
Disease

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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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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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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 body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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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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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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It takes great wit and interest and energy to be happy. The pursuit of happiness is a great activity. One must be open and alive. It is the greatest feat man has to accomplish.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
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Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
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