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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
Comes
Men
Seldom
Till
Glory
Dead
More quotes by Robert Herrick
You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
Robert Herrick
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
Robert Herrick
The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
Robert Herrick
Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
Robert Herrick
T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
Robert Herrick
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.
Robert Herrick
Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
Robert Herrick
Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
Robert Herrick
A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
Robert Herrick
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.
Robert Herrick
Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
Robert Herrick
Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
Robert Herrick
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
Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
Robert Herrick
In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
Robert Herrick
Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
Robert Herrick
The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Robert Herrick
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.
Robert Herrick
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.
Robert Herrick