On Love.

Love bade me ask a gift,
And I no more did move
But this, that I might shift
Still with my clothes my love:
That favour granted was;
Since which, though I love many,
Yet so it comes to pass
That long I love not any.

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

Upon Pievish. Epig.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To God.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

How Lilies Came White.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Vinegar.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Of Love.

I'll get me hence,
Because no fence
Or fort that I can make here,
But love by charms,
Or else by arms
Will storm, or starving take here.

Robert Herrick

No Luck In Love.

I do love I know not what,
Sometimes this and sometimes that;
All conditions I aim at.

But, as luckless, I have yet
Many shrewd disasters met
To gain her whom I would get.

Therefore now I'll love no more
As I've doted heretofore:
He who must be, shall be poor.

Robert Herrick

Upon Love.

In a dream, Love bade me go
To the galleys there to row;
In the vision I ask'd why?
Love as briefly did reply,
'Twas better there to toil, than prove
The turmoils they endure that love.
I awoke, and then I knew
What Love said was too-too true;
Henceforth therefore I will be,
As from love, from trouble free.
None pities him that's in the snare,
And, warned before, would not beware.

Robert Herrick

On Love.

That love 'twixt men does ever longest last
Where war and peace the dice by turns do cast.

Robert Herrick

Upon Love

I held Love's head while it did ache;
But so it chanced to be,
The cruel pain did his forsake,
And forthwith came to me.

Ai me!    how shall my grief be still'd?
Or where else shall we find
One like to me, who must be kill'd
For being too-too-kind?

Robert Herrick

An Hymn To Love.

    I will confess
    With cheerfulness,
Love is a thing so likes me,
    That let her lay
    On me all day,
I'll kiss the hand that strikes me.

    I will not, I,
    Now blubb'ring, cry,
It, ah! too late repents me,
    That I did fall
    To love at all,
Since love so much contents me.

    No, no, I'll be
    In fetters free:
While others they sit wringing
    Their hands for pain,
    I'll entertain
The wounds of love with singing.

    With flowers and wine,
    And cakes divine,
To strike me I will tempt thee:
    Which done; no more
    I'll come before
Thee and thine altars empty.

Robert Herrick