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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.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Dress
Wantonness
Shoulders
Cuffs
Dresses
Lawn
Clothes
Kindles
Sweet
Lawns
Fine
Distraction
Disorder
Thrown

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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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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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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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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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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
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A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine, As my small cruse best fits my little wine.
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Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say, Birds chuse their mates and couple too this day: But by their flight I never can devine When I shall couple with my valentine.
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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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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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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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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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