Not To Covet Much Where Little Is The Charge.

Why should we covet much, whenas we know
W'ave more to bear our charge than way to go?

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

Confusion Of Face.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To His Honoured Friend, Sir Thomas Heale.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

Upon God.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

To The Yew And Cypress To Grace His Funeral.

Robert Herrick, Simple Poetry

English

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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

The Covetous Still Captives.

Let's live with that small pittance that we have;
Who covets more, is evermore a slave.

Robert Herrick

Lots To Be Liked.

Learn this of me, where'er thy lot doth fall,
Short lot or not, to be content with all.

Robert Herrick

To His Dear God.

    I'll hope no more
For things that will not come;
And if they do, they prove but cumbersome.
    Wealth brings much woe;
And, since it fortunes so,
'Tis better to be poor
    Than so t' abound
    As to be drown'd
Or overwhelm'd with store.

    Pale care, avaunt!
I'll learn to be content
With that small stock Thy bounty gave or lent.
    What may conduce
To my most healthful use,
Almighty God, me grant;
    But that, or this,
    That hurtful is,
Deny Thy suppliant.

Robert Herrick

Good Precepts, Or Counsel

In all thy need, be thou possest
Still with a well prepared breast;
Nor let the shackles make thee sad;
Thou canst but have what others had.
And this for comfort thou must know,
Times that are ill won't still be so:
Clouds will not ever pour down rain;
A sullen day will clear again.
First, peals of thunder we must hear;
When lutes and harps shall stroke the ear.

Robert Herrick

Nothing Too Much.

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Look where we will throughout creation,
We look in vain for moderation.
There is a certain golden mean,
Which Nature's sovereign Lord, I ween,
Design'd the path of all forever.
Doth one pursue it? Never.
E'en things which by their nature bless,
Are turn'd to curses by excess.

The grain, best gift of Ceres fair,
Green waving in the genial air,
By overgrowth exhausts the soil;
By superfluity of leaves
Defrauds the treasure of its sheaves,
And mocks the busy farmer's toil.
Not less redundant is the tree,
So sweet a thing is luxury.
The grain within due bounds to keep,
Their Maker licenses the sheep
The leaves excessive to retrench.
In troops they spread across the plain,
And, nibbling down the hapless grain,

Jean de La Fontaine