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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

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Love
Bores
Bees
Brave
Seek
Eyes
Eye
Bonnet
Away
Bonnets
Find
Bore

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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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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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Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o'ercome When no force else can get the masterdom
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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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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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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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Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
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When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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