Robert Herrick
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,
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...
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;
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,
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
The Definition Of Beauty
Beauty no other thing is, than a
Flash'd out between the middle and extreme
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...
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
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
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,
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
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