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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
Men
Seldom
Till
Glory
Dead
Comes

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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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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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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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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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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
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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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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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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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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.
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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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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.
Robert Herrick