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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Rosebuds
Gather
May

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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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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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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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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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Some asked me where the rubies grew, And nothing I did say But with my finger pointed to The lips of Julia.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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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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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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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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A little saint best fits a little shrine, A little prop best fits a little vine, As my small cruse best fits my little wine.
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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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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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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