Old Parson Beanes hunts six days of the week,
And on the seventh, he has his notes to seek.
Six days he hollows so much breath away
That on the seventh he can nor preach or pray.
Other poems by Robert Herrick
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may,
Old time is still a-flying:
And this same flower that smiles to-day
A SWEET disorder in the dress
Kindles in clothes a wantonness:
A lawn about the shoulders thrown
Display thy breasts, my Julia, there let me
Behold that circummortal purity;
Between whose glories, there my lips I’ll lay,
HAVE ye beheld (with much delight)
A red rose peeping through a white?
Or else a cherry, double grac'd,
Julia, I bring
To thee this ring,
Made for thy finger fit;
Whenas in silks my Julia goes,
Then, then (methinks) how sweetly flows
That liquefaction of her clothes.
Lord, Thou hast given me a cell
Wherein to dwell,
A little house, whose humble roof