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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.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Shore
Ships
Calm
Sea
Late
Trust
Though
Navigation
Drown

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Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
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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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You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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It takes great wit and interest and energy to be happy. The pursuit of happiness is a great activity. One must be open and alive. It is the greatest feat man has to accomplish.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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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.
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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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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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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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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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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