Upon Penny.

Brown bread Tom Penny eats, and must of right,
Because his stock will not hold out for white.

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 Prew His Maid

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Nothing Free-Cost

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

God's Presence.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

The New-Year's Gift: Or, Circumcision's Song. Sung To The King In The Presence At Whitehall.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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The Peter-Penny.

Fresh strewings allow
To my sepulchre now,
To make my lodging the sweeter;
A staff or a wand
Put then in my hand,
With a penny to pay S. Peter.

Who has not a cross
Must sit with the loss,
And no whit further must venture;
Since the porter he
Will paid have his fee,
Or else not one there must enter.

Who at a dead lift
Can't send for a gift
A pig to the priest for a roaster,
Shall hear his clerk say,
By yea and by nay,
No penny, no paternoster.

Robert Herrick

The Poor's Portion.

The sup'rabundance of my store,
That is the portion of the poor:
Wheat, barley, rye, or oats; what is't
But He takes toll of? all the grist.
Two raiments have I: Christ then makes
This law; that He and I part stakes.
Or have I two loaves, then I use
The poor to cut, and I to choose.

Robert Herrick

No Want Where There's Little.

To bread and water none is poor;
And having these, what need of more?
Though much from out the cess be spent,
Nature with little is content.

Robert Herrick

Upon Prickles. Epig.

Prickles is waspish, and puts forth his sting
For bread, drink, butter, cheese; for everything
That Prickles buys puts Prickles out of frame;
How well his nature's fitted to his name!

Robert Herrick

Upon Chub.

When Chub brings in his harvest, still he cries,
"Aha, my boys! here's meat for Christmas pies!"
Soon after he for beer so scores his wheat,
That at the tide he has not bread to eat.

Robert Herrick

Upon Bran. Epig.

What made that mirth last night? the neighbours say,
That Bran the baker did his breech beray:
I rather think, though they may speak the worst,
'Twas to his batch, but leaven laid there first.

Robert Herrick