Long Life.

The longer thread of life we spin,
The more occasion still to sin.

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

Faith Four-Square.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

An Epitaph Upon A Sober Matron.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

How Roses Came Red.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon Trencherman.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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Explore a curated selection of verses that share themes, styles, and emotional resonance with the poem you've just read.

On Himself

A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here,
Twice five-and-twenty, bate me but one year;
Long I have lasted in this world; 'tis true
But yet those years that I have lived, but few.
Who by his gray hairs doth his lustres tell,
Lives not those years, but he that lives them well:
One man has reach'd his sixty years, but he
Of all those three-score has not lived half three:
He lives who lives to virtue; men who cast
Their ends for pleasure, do not live, but last.

Robert Herrick

Happiness.

That happiness does still the longest thrive,
Where joys and griefs have turns alternative.

Robert Herrick

Pain Ends In Pleasure.

Afflictions bring us joy in times to come,
When sins, by stripes, to us grow wearisome.

Robert Herrick

Long-Looked-For Comes At Last.

Though long it be, years may repay the debt;
None loseth that which he in time may get.

Robert Herrick

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

On Himself.

If that my fate has now fulfill'd my year,
And so soon stopt my longer living here;
What was't, ye gods, a dying man to save,
But while he met with his paternal grave!
Though while we living 'bout the world do roam,
We love to rest in peaceful urns at home,
Where we may snug, and close together lie
By the dead bones of our dear ancestry.

Robert Herrick