Upon Flimsey. Epig.

Why walks Nick Flimsey like a malcontent!
Is it because his money all is spent?
No, but because the dingthrift now is poor,
And knows not where i' th' world to borrow more.

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

God's Anger.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Great Maladies, Long Medicines.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

A Carol Presented To Dr. Williams, Bishop Of Lincoln As A New-Year's Gift.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Loach.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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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

The Fate Of The Flimflam

A flimflam flopped from a fillamaloo,
Where the pollywog pinkled so pale,
And the pipkin piped a petulant "pooh"
To the garrulous gawp of the gale.
"Oh, woe to the swap of the sweeping swipe
That booms on the hobbling bay!"
Snickered the snark to the snoozing snipe
That lurked where the lamprey lay.

The gluglug glinked in the glimmering gloam,
Where the buzbuz bumbled his bee--
When the flimflam flitted, all flecked with foam,
From the sozzling and succulent sea.
"Oh, swither the swipe, with its sweltering sweep!"
She swore as she swayed in a swoon,
And a doleful dank dumped over the deep,
To the lay of the limpid loon!

Eugene Field

Upon Skrew. Epig.

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

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

Upon A Cheap Laundress. Epig.
Feacie, some say, doth wash her clothes i' th' lie
That sharply trickles from her either eye.
The laundresses, they envy her good-luck,
Who can with so small charges drive the buck.
What needs she fire and ashes to consume,
Who can scour linens with her own salt rheum?
Robert Herrick

Upon Slouch.
Slouch he packs up, and goes to several fairs,
And weekly markets for to sell his wares:
Meantime that he from place to place does roam,
His wife her own ware sells as fast at home.
Robert Herrick