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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
Government
Prone
Men
Loathe
Discontent
Suspicious
Subjects
Present
Stills
Still

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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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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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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup I'll drink to the garlands around it But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown'd it.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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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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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.
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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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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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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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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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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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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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