Upon One-Ey'd Broomsted. Epig.

Broomsted a lameness got by cold and beer:
And to the bath went, to be cured there:
His feet were helped, and left his crutch behind;
But home returned, as he went forth, half blind.

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 A Wife That Died Mad With Jealousy.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The Vine

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Dreams

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Fame.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Upon A Blear-Ey'd Woman.

Wither'd with years, and bed-rid Mumma lies;
Dry-roasted all, but raw yet in her eyes.

Robert Herrick

His Own Epitaph.

As wearied pilgrims, once possest
Of long'd-for lodging, go to rest,
So I, now having rid my way,
Fix here my button'd staff and stay.
Youth, I confess, hath me misled;
But age hath brought me right to bed.

Robert Herrick

Upon Tap.

Tap, better known than trusted, as we hear,
Sold his old mother's spectacles for beer:
And not unlikely; rather too than fail,
He'll sell her eyes, and nose, for beer and ale.

Robert Herrick

Upon Bridget. Epig.

Of four teeth only Bridget was possest;
Two she spat out, a cough forced out the rest.

Robert Herrick

Upon Her Feet

Her pretty feet
Like snails did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they played at Bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.

Robert Herrick

On Himself.

Here down my wearied limbs I'll lay;
My pilgrim's staff, my weed of gray,
My palmer's hat, my scallop's shell,
My cross, my cord, and all, farewell.
For having now my journey done,
Just at the setting of the sun,
Here I have found a chamber fit,
God and good friends be thanked for it,
Where if I can a lodger be,
A little while from tramplers free,
At my up-rising next I shall,
If not requite, yet thank ye all.
Meanwhile, the holy-rood hence fright
The fouler fiend and evil sprite
From scaring you or yours this night.

Robert Herrick