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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
Whose
Poor
House
Home
Body
Soul
Ribs
Flesh

More quotes by Robert Herrick

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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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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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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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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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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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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick