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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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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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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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Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o'ercome When no force else can get the masterdom
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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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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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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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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.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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