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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Discontent
Suspicious
Subjects
Present
Stills
Still
Government
Prone
Men
Loathe

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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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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
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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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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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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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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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Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be,Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
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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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You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
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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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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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