Quote

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.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Every
Wave
Civility
Notes
Shoe
Shoes
Deserving
Whose
String
Winning
Careless
Art
Precise
Tempestuous
Part
Strings
Apparel
Doe
Note
Wilde

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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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Fight thou with shafts of silver, and o'ercome When no force else can get the masterdom
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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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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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Feed him ye must, whose food fills you. And that this pleasure is like raine, Not sent ye for to drowne your paine, But for to make it spring againe.
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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine.
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Well I sup and well I dine, When I drink my frolic wine.
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Then be not coy, but use your time And while ye may, go marry: For having lost but once your prime, You may for ever tarry.
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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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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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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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Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall, Short lot, or not, to be content with all.
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Oft have I heard both youths and virgins say, Birds chuse their mates and couple too this day: But by their flight I never can devine When I shall couple with my valentine.
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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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