Another. (Predestination)

Art thou not destin'd? then with haste go on
To make thy fair predestination:
If thou can'st change thy life, God then will please
To change, or call back, His past sentences.

Robert Herrick

Robert Herrick was a 17th-century English lyric poet and cleric. He is known for his book of poems, "Hesperides," which includes the carpe diem poem "To the Virgins, to Make Much of Time." His works are noted for their clarity, simplicity, and musical quality. Herrick was also a vicar of Dean Prior in Devon, despite being ejected during the English Civil War and later reinstated.

Robert Herrick

To Anthea.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Observation.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Fairies

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To All Young Men That Love.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Predestination.

Predestination is the cause alone
Of many standing, but of fall to none.

Robert Herrick

Another. (Sin.)

Sin is the cause of death; and sin's alone
The cause of God's predestination:
And from God's prescience of man's sin doth flow
Our destination to eternal woe.

Robert Herrick

Another. (To His Ever-Loving God.)

Thou bid'st me come; I cannot come; for why?
Thou dwell'st aloft, and I want wings to fly.
To mount my soul, she must have pinions given;
For 'tis no easy way from earth to heaven.

Robert Herrick

Another To His Saviour.

If Thou be'st taken, God forbid
I fly from Thee, as others did:
But if Thou wilt so honour me
As to accept my company,
I'll follow Thee, hap hap what shall,
Both to the judge and judgment hall:
And, if I see Thee posted there,
To be all-flayed with whipping-cheer,
I'll take my share; or else, my God,
Thy stripes I'll kiss, or burn the rod.

Robert Herrick

Another Of God.

God's said to leave this place, and for to come
Nearer to that place than to other some,
Of local motion, in no least respect,
But only by impression of effect.

Robert Herrick

To His Book.

Have I not blest thee? Then go forth, nor fear
Or spice, or fish, or fire, or close-stools here.
But with thy fair fates leading thee, go on
With thy most white predestination.
Nor think these ages that do hoarsely sing
The farting tanner and familiar king,
The dancing friar, tatter'd in the bush;
Those monstrous lies of little Robin Rush,
Tom Chipperfeild, and pretty lisping Ned,
That doted on a maid of gingerbread;
The flying pilchard and the frisking dace,
With all the rabble of Tim Trundell's race
(Bred from the dunghills and adulterous rhymes),
Shall live, and thou not superlast all times.
No, no; thy stars have destin'd thee to see
The whole world die and turn to dust with thee.
He's greedy of his life who will not fall
Whenas a public ruin bears...

Robert Herrick