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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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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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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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o'ercome When no force else can get the masterdom
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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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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It takes great wit and interest and energy to be happy. The pursuit of happiness is a great activity. One must be open and alive. It is the greatest feat man has to accomplish.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
Robert Herrick