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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
Ships
Calm
Sea
Late
Trust
Though
Navigation
Drown
Shore

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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
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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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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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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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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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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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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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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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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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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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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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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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