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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
Winning
Part
Without
Heart
Concurrence
Lips
Sweet
Prayer

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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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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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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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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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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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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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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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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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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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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.
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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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