Upon Cuffe. Epig.

Cuffe comes to church much: but he keeps his bed
Those Sundays only whenas briefs are read.
This makes Cuffe dull; and troubles him the most,
Because he cannot sleep i' th' church free cost.

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 Bacchus: A Canticle

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

A Hymn To Bacchus

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon The Same. (To The Detractor.)

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Beauty.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Upon Bungy.

Bungy does fast; looks pale; puts sackcloth on;
Not out of conscience, or religion:
Or that this younker keeps so strict a Lent,
Fearing to break the king's commandement:
But being poor, and knowing flesh is dear,
He keeps not one, but many Lents i' th' year.

Robert Herrick

Upon Skrew. Epig.

Skrew lives by shifts; yet swears by no small oaths
For all his shifts he cannot shift his clothes.

Robert Herrick

Upon Huncks. Epig.

Huncks has no money, he does swear or say,
About him, when the tavern's shot's to pay.
If he has none in 's pockets, trust me, Huncks
Has none at home in coffers, desks, or trunks.

Robert Herrick

Upon Luggs. Epig.

Luggs, by the condemnation of the Bench,
Was lately whipt for lying with a wench.
Thus pains and pleasures turn by turn succeed:
He smarts at last who does not first take heed.

Robert Herrick

Upon Cob. Epig.

Cob clouts his shoes, and, as the story tells,
His thumb nails par'd afford him sparrables.

Robert Herrick

Upon The Bishop Of Lincoln's Imprisonment.

Never was day so over-sick with showers
But that it had some intermitting hours;
Never was night so tedious but it knew
The last watch out, and saw the dawning too;
Never was dungeon so obscurely deep
Wherein or light or day did never peep;
Never did moon so ebb, or seas so wane,
But they left hope-seed to fill up again.
So you, my lord, though you have now your stay,
Your night, your prison, and your ebb, you may
Spring up afresh, when all these mists are spent,
And star-like, once more gild our firmament.
Let but that mighty Cæsar speak, and then
All bolts, all bars, all gates shall cleave; as when
That earthquake shook the house, and gave the stout
Apostles way, unshackled, to go out.
This, as I wish for, so I hope to see;
Though you, my lord, have bee...

Robert Herrick