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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Food
Makes
Merriment
Table
Tables
Content
Eating

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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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Cherry-ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry, Full and fair ones come and buy. If so be you ask me where They do grow, I answer: There, Where my Julia's lips do smile There's the land, or cherry-isle, Whose plantations fully show All the year where cherries grow.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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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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A winning wave, (deserving note.) In the tempestuous petticote, A careless shoe-string, in whose tye I see a wilde civility,-- Doe more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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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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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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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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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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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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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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