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In the hour of my distress, When temptations me oppress, And when I my sins confess, Sweet Spirit, comfort me.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Sin
Comfort
Oppress
Sweet
Temptations
Hours
Confess
Spirit
Distress
Sins
Temptation
Hour

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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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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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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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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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Then be not coy, but use your time And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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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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Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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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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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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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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The May-pole is up, Now give me the cup I'll drink to the garlands around it But first unto those Whose hands did compose The glory of flowers that crown'd it.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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