Poem by Robert Herrick

On Himself (A wearied pilgrim I have wander'd here)

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.

1. Upon Mrs Eliz. Wheeler, under the Name of Amarillis
2. The Lily in a Crystal
3. Upon Love: By Way of Question and Answer
4. Orpheus
5. To the Water-Nymphs Drinking at the Fountain

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