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Robert Herrick Short Poems

Famous Short Robert Herrick Poems. Short poetry by famous poet Robert Herrick. A collection of the all-time best Robert Herrick short poems


by Robert Herrick
 In man, ambition is the common'st thing;
Each one by nature loves to be a king.



by Robert Herrick
 Love is a circle, that doth restless move
In the same sweet eternity of Love.

by Robert Herrick
 When I a verse shall make,
Know I have pray'd thee,
For old religion's sake,
Saint Ben to aid me.
Make the way smooth for me, When I, thy Herrick, Honouring thee, on my knee Offer my lyric.
Candles I'll give to thee, And a new altar, And thou, Saint Ben, shalt be Writ in my psalter.

by Robert Herrick
 Honour to you who sit
Near to the well of wit,
And drink your fill of it!

Glory and worship be
To you, sweet Maids, thrice three,
Who still inspire me;

And teach me how to sing
Unto the lyric string,
My measures ravishing!

Then, while I sing your praise,
My priest-hood crown with bays
Green to the end of days!

by Robert Herrick
 All things decay with time: The forest sees
The growth and down-fall of her aged trees;
That timber tall, which three-score lustres stood
The proud dictator of the state-like wood,
I mean the sovereign of all plants, the oak,
Droops, dies, and falls without the cleaver's stroke.

by Robert Herrick
 Down with the rosemary, and so
Down with the bays and misletoe;
Down with the holly, ivy, all
Wherewith ye dress'd the Christmas hall;
That so the superstitious find
No one least branch there left behind;
For look, how many leaves there be
Neglected there, maids, trust to me,
So many goblins you shall see.

by Robert Herrick
 While the milder fates consent,
Let's enjoy our merriment :
Drink, and dance, and pipe, and play ;
Kiss our dollies night and day :
Crowned with clusters of the vine,
Let us sit, and quaff our wine.
Call on Bacchus, chant his praise ; Shake the thyrse, and bite the bays : Rouse Anacreon from the dead, And return him drunk to bed : Sing o'er Horace, for ere long Death will come and mar the song : Then shall Wilson and Gotiere Never sing or play more here.



by Robert Herrick
 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 thine
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolic wine.
My Ben! Or come again, Or send to us Thy wit's great overplus; But teach us yet Wisely to husband it, Lest we that talent spend; And having once brought to an end That precious stock,--the store Of such a wit the world should have no more.

by Robert Herrick
 Who with a little cannot be content,
Endures an everlasting punishment.

by Robert Herrick
 A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Into a fine distraction--
An erring lace, which here and there
Enthrals the crimson stomacher--
A cuff neglectful, and thereby
Ribbands to flow confusedly--
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat--
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.

by Robert Herrick
 Kindle the Christmas brand, and then
Till sunset let it burn;
Which quench'd, then lay it up again,
Till Christmas next return.
Part must be kept, wherewith to teend The Christmas log next year; And where 'tis safely kept, the fiend Can do no mischief there.

by Robert Herrick
 Bacchus, let me drink no more!
Wild are seas that want a shore!
When our drinking has no stint,
There is no one pleasure in't.
I have drank up for to please Thee, that great cup, Hercules.
Urge no more; and there shall be Daffadils giv'n up to thee.

by Robert Herrick
 Health is the first good lent to men;
A gentle disposition then:
Next, to be rich by no by-ways;
Lastly, with friends t' enjoy our days.

by Robert Herrick
 Beauty no other thing is, than a beam
Flash'd out between the middle and extreme.

by Robert Herrick
 To my revenge, and to her desperate fears,
Fly, thou made bubble of my sighs and tears!
In the wild air, when thou hast roll'd about,
And, like a blasting planet, found her out;
Stoop, mount, pass by to take her eye--then glare
Like to a dreadful comet in the air:
Next, when thou dost perceive her fixed sight
For thy revenge to be most opposite,
Then, like a globe, or ball of wild-fire, fly,
And break thyself in shivers on her eye!

by Robert Herrick
 Orpheus he went, as poets tell,
To fetch Eurydice from hell;
And had her, but it was upon
This short, but strict condition;
Backward he should not look, while he
Led her through hell's obscurity.
But ah! it happen'd, as he made His passage through that dreadful shade, Revolve he did his loving eye, For gentle fear or jealousy; And looking back, that look did sever Him and Eurydice for ever.

by Robert Herrick
 Those ends in war the best contentment bring,
Whose peace is made up with a pardoning.

BURIAL  Create an image from this poem
by Robert Herrick
 Man may want land to live in; but for all
Nature finds out some place for burial.

DREAMS  Create an image from this poem
by Robert Herrick
 Here we are all, by day; by night we're hurl'd
By dreams, each one into a several world.

by Robert Herrick
 The mellow touch of music most doth wound
The soul, when it doth rather sigh, than sound.

by Robert Herrick
 Clear are her eyes,
Like purest skies;
Discovering from thence
A baby there
That turns each sphere,
Like an Intelligence.

by Robert Herrick
 Have ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry (double graced)
Within a lily? Centre placed?
Or ever marked the pretty beam
A strawberry shows half drowned in cream?
Or seen rich rubies blushing through
A pure smooth pearl, and orient too?
So like to this, nay all the rest,
Is each neat niplet of her breast.

by Robert Herrick
 Play, Phoebus, on thy lute,
And we will sit all mute;
By listening to thy lyre,
That sets all ears on fire.
Hark, hark! the God does play! And as he leads the way Through heaven, the very spheres, As men, turn all to ears!

by Robert Herrick
 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.

by Robert Herrick
 Scobble for whoredom whips his wife and cries
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.