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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
Labour
According
Gains
Fortune
Pain
Littles
Little
Fortunes
Men
Pains

More quotes by Robert Herrick

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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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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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Let wealth come in by comely thrift, And not by any sordid shift 'T is haste Makes waste Extremes have still their fault. Who gripes too hard the dry and slipp'ry sand, Holds none at all, or little, in his hand.
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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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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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I dare not ask a kiss I dare not beg a smile Lest having that or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air, That lately kissed thee.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
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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!
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick