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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
Spirit
Distress
Sins
Temptation
Hour
Sin
Comfort
Oppress
Sweet
Temptations
Hours
Confess

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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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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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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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When words we want, love teacheth to indite And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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Give me a kiss, and to that kiss a score: Then to that twenty, add a hundred more.
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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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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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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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Happy is the bride that the sun shines on.
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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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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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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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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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