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

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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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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.
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You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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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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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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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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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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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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A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction.
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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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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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