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
Wine
Prop
Small
Vine
Littles
Shrines
Best
Vines
Little
Props
Fits
Saint
Fit
Shrine

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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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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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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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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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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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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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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
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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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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
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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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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.
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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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