Robert Herrick

No, not Jove Himself, at one time, can be wise and love.

Praise they that will times past; I joy to see Myself now live: this age best pleaseth me.

Men are suspicious, prone to discontent: Subjects still loathe the present government.

We such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each verse of thine Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.

We credit most our sight; one eye doth please Our trust far more than ten ear-witnesses.

Thus times do shift; each thing his turn does hold: New things succeed, as former things grow old.

Night makes no difference 'twixt the priest and clerk; Joan as my lady is as good i' th' dark.

'Twixt kings and tyrants there's this difference known: Kings seek their subjects' good, tyrants their own.

When words we want, Love teacheth to indite; And what we blush to speak, she bids us write.

The readiness of doing doth express No other but the doer's willingness.

Here she lies, in bed of spice, Fair as Eve in Paradise: For her beauty it was such Poets could not praise too much. Virgins, come, and in a ring Her supremest requiem sing;

I saw a fly within a bead Of amber cleanly burièd; The urn was little, but the room More rich than Cleopatra's tomb.

That happiness does still the longest thrive, Where joys and griefs have turns alternative.

Come, bring with a noise, My merry, merry boys, The Christmas log to the firing.

In things a moderation keep: Kings ought to shear, not skin their sheep.

Whenas in silks my Julia goes, Then, then, methinks, how sweetly flows The liquefaction of her clothes.Next, when I cast mine eyes and see That brave vibration each way free; O how that glittering taketh me!

Of both our fortunes good and bad we find Prosperity more searching of the mind: Felicity flies o'er the wall and fence, While misery keeps in with patience.

If little labour, little are our gains: Man's fortunes are according to his pains.

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.

A cat I keep that plays about my house, Grown fat With eating many a miching mouse. To these A Tracy I do keep whereby

Here a pretty baby lies Sung asleep with lullabies; Pray be silent, and not stir Th' easy earth that covers her.

Let wealth come in by comely thrift And not by any sordid shift; 'Tis haste Makes waste: Extremes have still their fault: The softest fire makes the sweetest malt:

Go to your banquet then, but use delight, So as to rise still with an appetite. Love is a thing most nice, and must be fed To such a height, but never surfeited. What is beyond the mean is ever ill: Tis best to feed Love, but not overfill.

None pities him that's in the snare, And, warned before, would not beware.