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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!
Robert Herrick
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Robert Herrick
Age: 83 †
Born: 1591
Born: August 24
Died: 1674
Died: October 12
Poet
Writer
London
England
Meet
Skill
Sweet
Doctor
Lees
Hope
Sees
Artless
Running
Doctors
Potion
Spirit
None
Pill
Littles
Skills
Fees
Little
Kill
Pills
Nothing
Comfort
Runs
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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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Conquer we shall, but, we must first contend! It's not the fight that crowns us, but the end.
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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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Necessity makes dastards valiant men.
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Who covets more is evermore a slave.
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Each must in virtue strive for to excel That man lives twice that lives the first life well.
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Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free, O how that glittering taketh me!
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No, not Jove Himselfe, at one time, can be wise and love.
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A spark neglected makes a mighty fire.
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Things are evermore sincere / Candor here, and lustre there / Delighting.
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Gather ye rosebuds, while ye may.
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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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O thou, the drink of gods and angels! Wine
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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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Hast thou attempted greatnesse? Then go on Back-turning slackens resolution.
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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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You say to me-wards your affection's strong Pray love me little, so you love me long.
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In ways to greatness think on this, That slippery all ambition is
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Go to your banquet then, but use delight So as to rise still with an appetite.
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Tears are the noble language of the eye.
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