Three Fatal Sisters.

Three fatal sisters wait upon each sin;
First, fear and shame without, then guilt within.

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

Distrust.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Sweetness In Sacrifice.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Epitaph On The Tomb Of Sir Edward Giles And His Wife In The South Aisle Of Dean Prior Church, Devon.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The First Mars Or Makes.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

Suggested Poems

Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

Sorrows.

Sorrows our portion are: ere hence we go,
Crosses we must have; or, hereafter woe.

Robert Herrick

Sin.

Sin never slew a soul unless there went
Along with it some tempting blandishment.

Robert Herrick

To A Bed Of Tulips.

Bright tulips, we do know
You had your coming hither,
And fading-time does show
That ye must quickly wither.

Your sisterhoods may stay,
And smile here for your hour;
But die ye must away,
Even as the meanest flower.

Come, virgins, then, and see
Your frailties, and bemoan ye;
For, lost like these, 'twill be
As time had never known ye.

Robert Herrick

The Dream.

By dream I saw one of the three
Sisters of fate appear to me;
Close to my bedside she did stand,
Showing me there a firebrand;
She told me too, as that did spend,
So drew my life unto an end.
Three quarters were consum'd of it;
Only remained a little bit,
Which will be burnt up by-and-by;
Then, Julia, weep, for I must die.

Robert Herrick

Sin And Strife.

After true sorrow for our sins, our strife
Must last with Satan to the end of life.

Robert Herrick

Upon The Troublesome Times.

O times most bad,
Without the scope
Of hope
Of better to be had!

Where shall I go,
Or whither run
To shun
This public overthrow?

No places are,
This I am sure,
Secure
In this our wasting war.

Some storms we've past,
Yet we must all
Down fall,
And perish at the last.

Robert Herrick