Quote

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!

Robert Herrick

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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Littles
Skills
Fees
Little
Kill
Pills
Nothing
Comfort
Runs
Meet
Skill
Sweet
Doctor
Lees
Hope
Sees
Artless
Running
Doctors
Potion
Spirit
None
Pill

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Tis not the food, but the content, That makes the table's merriment.
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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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Like will to like, each creature loves his kind.
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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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Give house-room to the best 'tis never known Verture and pleasure both to dwell in one.
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Art quickens nature care will make a face Neglected beauty perisheth apace.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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Those Saints, which God loves best, The Devil tempts not least.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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Men are suspicious prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present Government.
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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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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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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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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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Know when to speak - for many times it brings danger, to give the best advice to kings.
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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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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