Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick (baptised 24 August 1591–buried 15 October 1674) was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is best known for Hesperides, a book of poems. This includes thБольше
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#the2 мин. чтения

The Kiss A Dialogue

Among thy fancies, tell me this,
What is the thing we call a kiss
I shall resolve ye what it is:—It is a creature born and
Between the lips, all cherry-red,

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#ode1 мин. чтения

An Ode For Ben Jonson

Ah Ben
Say how, or when Shall we thy guests Meet at those lyric feasts Made at the Sun, The Dog, the Triple Tun
Where we such clusters had As made us nobly wild, not mad; And yet each verse of
Outdid the meat, outdid the frolic wine...

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#what1 мин. чтения

What Kind Of Mistress He Would Have

Be the mistress of my choice,
Clean in manners, clear in voice;
Be she witty, more than wise,
Pure enough, though not precise;

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#his1 мин. чтения

His Prayer For Absolution

For those my unbaptized rhymes,
Writ in my wild unhallowed times,
For every sentence, clause, and word,
That's not inlaid with Thee, my Lord,

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#childs1 мин. чтения

A Childs Grace

RE 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

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#the1 мин. чтения

The Definition Of Beauty

Beauty no other thing is, than a
Flash'd out between the middle and extreme

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#anthea2 мин. чтения

To Anthea Who May Command Him Anything

Bid me to live, and I will live Thy protestant to be;
Or bid me love, and I will give A loving heart to thee
A heart as soft, a heart as kind, A heart as sound and free,
As in the whole world thou canst find, That heart I'll give to...

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#live2 мин. чтения

To Live Merrily And To Trust To Good Verses

Now is the time for mirth,    Nor cheek or tongue be dumb;
For with the flow'ry earth    The golden pomp is come
The golden pomp is come;    For now each tree does wear,
Made of her pap and gum,    Rich beads of amber here

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#his1 мин. чтения

His Prayer To Ben Jonson

When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me

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#love1 мин. чтения

Of Love A Sonnet

How Love came in,
I do not know,
Whether by th'eye, or ear, or no;
Or whether with the soul it came,

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#up scoble1 мин. чтения

Up Scoble

Scobble for whoredom whips his wife and
He'll slit her nose; but blubbering she replies,"Good sir, make no more cuts i' th' outward skin,
One slit's enough to let adultery in

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#the1 мин. чтения

The Bad Season Makes The Poet Sad

Dull to myself, and almost dead to
My many fresh and fragrant mistresses;
Lost to all music now, since
Puts on the semblance here of sorrowing

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