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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
Men
Loathe
Discontent
Suspicious
Subjects
Present
Stills
Still
Government
Prone

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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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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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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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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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Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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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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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!
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
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Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!
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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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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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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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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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