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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
Littles
Little
Fortunes
Men
Pains
Labour
According
Gains
Fortune
Pain

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Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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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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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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Feed him ye must, whose food fills you. And that this pleasure is like raine, Not sent ye for to drowne your paine, But for to make it spring againe.
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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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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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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.
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick