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Tis hard to find God, but to comprehend Him, as He is, is labour without end.

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Without
Hard
Comprehend
Labour
God
Ends
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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave, I'le seek him in your eyes.
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Seldom comes Glory till a man be dead.
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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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Praise they that will times past, I joy to see My selfe now live: this age best pleaseth mee.
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If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.
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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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Whatever comes, let's be content withal: Among God's blessings there is no one small.
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Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
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The person lives twice who lives the first life well
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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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He who has suffered shipwreck, fears to sail Upon the seas, though with a gentle gale.
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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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Temptations hurt not, though they have accesse Satan o'ercomes none but by willingnesse.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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That age is best which is the first When youth and blood are warmer.
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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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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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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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The body is the soul's poor house or home, whose ribs the laths are and whose flesh the loam.
Robert Herrick