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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
Bees
Brave
Seek
Eyes
Eye
Bonnet
Away
Bonnets
Find
Bore
Love
Bores
More quotes by Robert Herrick
Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
Robert Herrick
Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
Robert Herrick
A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
Robert Herrick
Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
Robert Herrick
In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
Robert Herrick
Who covets more is evermore a slave.
Robert Herrick
Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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
A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction.
Robert Herrick
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.
Robert Herrick
If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
Robert Herrick
Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
Robert Herrick
Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
Robert Herrick
Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
Robert Herrick
Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
Robert Herrick
Tears are the noble language of the eye.
Robert Herrick
Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
Robert Herrick
The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Robert Herrick
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
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