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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Men
Pains
Labour
According
Gains
Fortune
Pain
Littles
Little
Fortunes

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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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.
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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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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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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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When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
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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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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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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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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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