Robert Herrick Quotes

Where 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.

A sweet disorder in the dress Kindles in clothes a wantonness: A lawn about the shoulders thrown Into a fine distraction… A careless shoe-string, in whose tie I see a wild civility: Do more bewitch me, than when Art Is too precise in every part.

When as in silks my Julia goes, Then, then (me thinks) how sweetly flows That liquefaction of her clothes.

Her eyes, the glow-worm lend thee, The shooting stars attend thee; And the elves also, Whose little eyes glow, Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.

Then come on, come on, and yield A savour like unto a blessed field, When the bedabbled morn Washes the golden ears of corn.

Go happy rose, and interwove With other flowers, bind my love. Tell her too, she must not be, Longer flowing, longer free, That so oft has fetter’d me.

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may, Old Time is still a flying: And this same flower that smiles to day, Tomorrow will be dying.

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.

See how Aurora throws her fair Fresh-quilted colours through the air: Get up, sweet-slug-a-bed, and see The dew-bespangling herb and tree.

Get up, get up for shame, the blooming morn Upon her wings presents the god unshorn.

Her legs were such Diana shows, When tuckt up she a hunting goes; With buskins shortened to descry The happy dawning of her thigh.

Let others drink thee freely; and desire Thee and their lips espous’d; while I admire, And love thee; but not taste thee. Let my Muse Fail of thy former helps; and only use Her inadult’rate strength: what’s done by me Hereafter, shall smell of the lamp, not thee.

Soul of my lie, and fame! Eternal lamp of love! whose radiant flame Out-glares the Heav’ns Osiris; and thy gleams Out-shine the splendour of his mid-day beams.

’Tis thou, alone, who with thy mystic fan, Work’st more than Wisdom, Art, or Nature can, To rouse the sacred madness; and awake The frost-bound-blood, and spirits; and to make Them frantic with thy raptures, flashing through The soul, like lightning, and as active too.

Wealth cannot make a life, but Love.

But thou liv’st fearless; and thy face ne’er shows Fortune when she comes, or goes.

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers: Of April, May, of June, and July-flowers. I sing of May-poles, Hock-carts, wassails, wakes, Of bride-grooms, brides, and of their bridal-cakes.

But ah! if empty dreams so please, Love give me more such nights as these.

Is there no way to beget In my limbs their former heat? Aeson had (as Poets fain) Baths that made him young again: Find that Medicine (if you can) For your dry-decrepit man: Who would but fain his strength renew, Were it but to pleasure you.

I write of Hell; I sing (and ever shall) Of Heaven, and hope to have it after all.