Quotes
Quotes - Herrick
Cherry ripe, ripe, ripe, I cry,
Full and fair ones,--come and buy!
If so be you ask me where
They do grow, I answer, there,
Where my Julia's lips do smile,--
There's the land, or cherry-isle.
Some asked me where the rubies grew,
And nothing I did say;
But with my finger pointed to
The lips of Julia.
Some asked how pearls did grow, and where?
Then spoke I to my girl
To part her lips, and showed them there
The quarelets of pearl.
A sweet disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness.
A winning wave, deserving note,
In the tempestuous petticoat;
A careless shoe-string, in whose tie
I see a wild civility,--
Do more bewitch me than when art
Is too precise in every part.
You say to me-wards your affection's strong;
Pray love me little, so you love me long.
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old Time is still a-flying,
And this same flower that smiles to-day
To-morrow will be dying.
Fall on me like a silent dew,
Or like those maiden showers
Which, by the peep of day, do strew
A baptism o'er the flowers.
Fair daffadills, we weep to see
You haste away so soon:
As yet the early rising sun
Has not attained his noon.
Thus woe succeeds a woe, as wave a wave.
Her pretty feet, like snails, did creep
A little out, and then,
As if they played at bo-peep,
Did soon draw in again.
Her eyes the glow-worm lend thee,
The shooting-stars attend thee;
And the elves also,
Whose little eyes glow
Like the sparks of fire, befriend thee.
I saw a flie within a beade
Of amber cleanly buried.
Thus times do shift,--each thing his turn does hold;
New things succeed, as former things grow old.
Out-did the meat, out-did the frolick wine.
Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt;
Nothing's so hard but search will find it out.
But ne'er the rose without the thorn.
Know when to speake; for many times it brings Danger to give the best advice to kings.
A sweet disorder in the dresse Kindles in cloathes a wantonnesse.
A winning wave, (deserving note.) In the tempestuous petticote, A careless shoe-string, in whose tye I see a wilde civility,-- Doe more bewitch me than when art Is too precise in every part.
For pitty, Sir, find out that Bee Which bore my Love away I'le seek him in your Bonnet brave, I'le seek him in your eyes.
To get thine ends, lay bashfulnesse aside; Who fears to aske, doth teach to be deny'd.
Let's live with that small pittance which we have; Who covets more is evermore a slave.
Fair daffadils, we weep to see You haste away so soone; As yet the early-rising sun Has not attained its noone. . . . . We have short time to stay as you, We have as short a spring; As quick a growth to meet decay As you or anything.
When a daffadill I see, Hanging down his head t'wards me, Guesse I may, what I must be: First, I shall decline my head; Secondly, I shall be dead: Lastly, safely buryed.
