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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Victory
Fight
Shall
Fighting
Ends
Firsts
Contend
First
Crowns
Must
Conquer

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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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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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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd before.
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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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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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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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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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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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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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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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