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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Ribs
Flesh
Whose
Poor
House
Home
Body
Soul

More quotes by Robert Herrick

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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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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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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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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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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Then be not coy, but use your time And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
Robert Herrick