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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
Soul
Ribs
Flesh
Whose
Poor
House
Home
Body

More quotes by Robert Herrick

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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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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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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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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.
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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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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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And as this round (ring) is nowhere found to flaw, or else to sever. So let our love as endless prove and pure as gold forever.
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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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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
Robert Herrick
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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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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
Robert Herrick
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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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