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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
Faces
Art
Nature
Apace
Care
Quickens
Make
Neglected
Beauty
Face

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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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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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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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Bid me to love, and I will give a loving heart to thee.
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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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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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When the artless doctor sees No one hope, but of his fees, And his skill runs on the lees Sweet Spirit, comfort me! When his potion and his pill, Has, or none, or little skill, Meet for nothing, but to kill Sweet Spirit, comfort me!
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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
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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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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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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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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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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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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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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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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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