Quote

In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Prayer
Winning
Part
Without
Heart
Concurrence
Lips
Sweet

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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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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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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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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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Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
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Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say, Birds chuse their mates and couple too this day: But by their flight I never can devine When I shall couple with my valentine.
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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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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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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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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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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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