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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Saints
Temptation
Saint
Loves
Devil
Least
Best
Tempts

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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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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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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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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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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be,Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
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A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction.
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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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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Then be not coy, but use your time And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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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.
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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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
Robert Herrick