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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Eating
Use
Stills
Still
Banquet
Banquets
Appetite
Rise
Delight

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Against diseases here the strongest fence is the defensive vertue, Abstinence.
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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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What though the sea be calm? trust to the shore, Ships have been drown'd, where late they danc'd before.
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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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When one is past, another care we have Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
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Bid me to live, and I will liveThy Protestant to be,Or bid me love, and I will giveA loving heart to thee.
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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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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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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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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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In sober mornings do not thou rehearse The holy incantation of a verse
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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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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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