Quote

The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup I'll drink to the garlands around it But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown'd it.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Giving
Whose
Compose
Drink
Crown
Hands
Crowns
Around
Unto
Give
Cups
May
Flowers
Firsts
Flower
Garlands
First
Glory
Pole

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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.
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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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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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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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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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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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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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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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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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