Robert Herrick

(1591-1674 / London / England)

Robert Herrick Poems

41. An Ode To Master Endymion Porter, Upon His Brother's Death 1/3/2003
42. Satisfaction For Sufferings 12/31/2002
43. To Music 12/31/2002
44. To Sir Clipsby Crew 12/31/2002
45. Anacreontic 12/31/2002
46. Kissing Usury 12/31/2002
47. To His Peculiar Friend, Mr John Wicks 12/31/2002
48. An Ode To Sir Clipsby Crew 12/31/2002
49. His Content In The Country 12/31/2002
50. Draw-Gloves 1/3/2003
51. His Winding-Sheet 12/31/2002
52. Pray And Prosper 12/31/2002
53. The Bellman 1/3/2003
54. The Bag Of The Bee 12/31/2002
55. The Changes: To Corinna 12/31/2002
56. To His Verses 12/31/2002
57. On Himself 12/31/2002
58. The Plaudite, Or End Of Life 12/31/2002
59. The Bleeding Hand; Or The Sprig Of Eglantine Given To A Maid 12/31/2002
60. Man's Dying-Place Uncertain 12/31/2002
61. Upon The Detracter 12/31/2002
62. Safety On The Shore 12/31/2002
63. Upon Tears 12/31/2002
64. Upon Wrinkles 12/31/2002
65. The Parliament Of Roses To Julia 12/31/2002
66. To His Muse 12/31/2002
67. The Ceremonies For Candlemas Day 12/31/2002
68. Upon Parson Beanes 1/1/2004
69. To Oenone 1/4/2003
70. Things Mortal Still Mutable 12/31/2002
71. The Wake 12/31/2002
72. The Apron Of Flowers 12/31/2002
73. The Bell-Man 12/31/2002
74. To Music: A Song 12/31/2002
75. To Perilla 1/13/2003
76. To Bacchus: A Canticle 12/31/2002
77. To Laurels 12/31/2002
78. Pardons 12/31/2002
79. His Age:Dedicated To His Peculiar Friend,Mr John Wickes, Under The Name Ofpostumus 12/31/2002
80. Good Precepts, Or Counsel 12/31/2002
Best Poem of Robert Herrick

To The Virgins, Make Much Of Time

Gather ye rose-buds while ye may:
Old Time is still a-flying;
And this same flower that smiles to-day,
To-morrow will be dying.

The glorious lamp of heaven, the Sun,
The higher he's a-getting,
The sooner will his race be run,
And nearer he's to setting.

That age is best, which is the first,
When youth and blood are warmer;
But being spent, the worse, and worst
Times, still succeed the former.

- Then be not coy, but use your time,
And while ye may, go marry;
For having lost but once your prime,
You may for ever tarry.

Read the full of To The Virgins, Make Much Of Time

The Mad Maid's Song

Good morrow to the day so fair;
Good morning, sir, to you;
Good morrow to mine own torn hair,
Bedabbled with the dew.

Good morning to this primrose too;
Good morrow to each maid;
That will with flowers the tomb bestrew
Wherein my Love is laid.

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