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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Age
Times
Past
Best
Live
Selfe
Praise
Joy

More quotes by Robert Herrick

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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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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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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Humble we must be, if to heaven we go High is the roof there, but the gate is low.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
Robert Herrick
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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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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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
Robert Herrick
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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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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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
Robert Herrick
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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
Robert Herrick
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
Robert Herrick
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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.
Robert Herrick