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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Seldom
Till
Glory
Dead
Comes
Men

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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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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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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Robert Herrick
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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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!
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick
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But here's the sunset of a tedious day, These two asleep are I'll but be undrest, And so to bed. Pray wish us all good rest.
Robert Herrick