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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
Drink
Crown
Hands
Crowns
Around
Unto
Give
Cups
May
Flowers
Firsts
Flower
Garlands
First
Glory
Pole
Giving
Whose
Compose
More quotes by Robert Herrick
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave, I'le seek him in your eyes.
Robert Herrick
Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
Robert Herrick
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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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
Robert Herrick
Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
Robert Herrick
Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
Robert Herrick
Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
Robert Herrick
Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
Robert Herrick
A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
Robert Herrick
That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
Robert Herrick
Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
Robert Herrick
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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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
Robert Herrick