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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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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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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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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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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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Thus times do shift, each thing his turn does hold New things succeed, as former things grow old.
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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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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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What is a kiss? Why this, as some approve: the sure, sweet cement, glue, and lime of love.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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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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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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None pities him that is in the snare, who warned before, would not beware.
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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