Upon One Who Said She Was Always Young.

You say you're young; but when your teeth are told
To be but three, black-ey'd, we'll think you old.

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

The Cloud.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To Enjoy The Time

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

His Content In The Country

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Harvest Home

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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On Himself.

Young I was, but now am old,
But I am not yet grown cold;
I can play, and I can twine
'Bout a virgin like a vine:
In her lap too I can lie
Melting, and in fancy die;
And return to life if she
Claps my cheek, or kisseth me:
Thus, and thus it now appears
That our love outlasts our years.

Robert Herrick

Age Unfit For Love.

Maidens tell me I am old;
Let me in my glass behold
Whether smooth or not I be,
Or if hair remains to me.
Well, or be't or be't not so,
This for certainty I know,
Ill it fits old men to play,
When that Death bids come away.

Robert Herrick

Youth And Age.

God on our youth bestows but little ease;
But on our age most sweet indulgences.

Robert Herrick

To A Gentlewoman, Objecting To Him His Gray Hair

Am I despised, because you say;
And I dare swear, that I am gray?
Know, Lady, you have but your day!
And time will come when you shall wear
Such frost and snow upon your hair;
And when, though long, it comes to pass,
You question with your looking-glass,
And in that sincere crystal seek
But find no rose-bud in your cheek,
Nor any bed to give the shew
Where such a rare carnation grew:
Ah!then too late, close in your chamber keeping,
It will be told
That you are old,
By those true tears you're weeping.

Robert Herrick

Upon An Old Man: A Residentiary.

Tread, sirs, as lightly as ye can
Upon the grave of this old man.
Twice forty, bating but one year
And thrice three weeks, he lived here.
Whom gentle fate translated hence
To a more happy residence.
Yet, reader, let me tell thee this,
Which from his ghost a promise is,
If here ye will some few tears shed,
He'll never haunt ye now he's dead.

Robert Herrick

Upon Wrinkles

Wrinkles no more are, or no less,
Than beauty turn'd to sourness.

Robert Herrick