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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic 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
Meat
Wine
Frolic

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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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And as this round (ring) is nowhere found to flaw, or else to sever. So let our love as endless prove and pure as gold forever.
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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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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.
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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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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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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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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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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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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.
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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.
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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
Robert Herrick