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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Make
Quickens
Neglected
Beauty
Face
Faces
Art
Nature
Care
Apace

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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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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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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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The first act's doubtful, but we say, it is the last commends the play.
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And as this round (ring) is nowhere found to flaw, or else to sever. So let our love as endless prove and pure as gold forever.
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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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In prayer the lips ne'er act the winning part, Without the sweet concurrence of the heart.
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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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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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Drink wine, and live here blitheful while ye may The morrow's life too late is live to-day.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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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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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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Know when to speak - for many times it brings danger, to give the best advice to kings.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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