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When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Wave
Thus
Succeed
Another
Past
Care
Succeeds
Woe

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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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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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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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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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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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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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T is the will that makes the action good or ill.
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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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I dare not ask a kiss I dare not beg a smile Lest having that or this, I might grow proud the while. No, no, the utmost share Of my desire shall be Only to kiss that air, That lately kissed thee.
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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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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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
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Here a little child I stand, Heaving up my either hand Cold as paddocks though they be, Here I lift them up to Thee, for a benison to fall on our meat, and on us all. Amen.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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