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
Give
Cups
May
Flowers
Firsts
Flower
Garlands
First
Glory
Pole
Giving
Whose
Compose
Drink
Crown
Hands
Crowns
Around
Unto

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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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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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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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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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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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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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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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