Quote

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.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Best
Vines
Little
Props
Fits
Saint
Fit
Shrine
Wine
Prop
Small
Vine
Littles
Shrines

More quotes by Robert Herrick

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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.
Robert Herrick
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
Robert Herrick
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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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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
Robert Herrick
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
Robert Herrick
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
Robert Herrick
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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
Robert Herrick
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
Robert Herrick
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Robert Herrick
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
Robert Herrick
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
Robert Herrick
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
Robert Herrick
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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick