Edward Herbert (1583 – 1648)
British soldier, diplomat, historian, poet, autobiographer and metaphysician, sometimes called "the father of deism".
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Sum up at night what thou has done by day.
Sleep, Nurse of our life, Care’s best reposer,
Nature's high'st rapture, and the vision giver.
Our life is but a dark and stormy night,
To which sense yields a weak and glimmering light,
While wandering Man thinks he discerneth all
By that which makes him but mistake and fall.
Let then no doubt, Celinda, touch,
Much less your fairest mind invade:
Were not our souls immortal made
Our equal loves can make them such.
I must no less commend the study of anatomy, which whosoever considers, I believe will never be an atheist; the frame of man's body and coherence of his parts, being so strange and paradoxal, that I hold it to be the greatest miracle of nature.
A good rider on a good horse, is as much above himself and others, as this world can make him.
Now that the April of your youth adorns
The garden of your face.
There [is] no little vigour and force added to words, when they are delivered in a neat and fine way, and somewhat out of the ordinary road, common and dull language relishing more of the clown than the gentleman. But herein also affectation must be avoided; it being better for a man by a native and clear eloquence to express himself, than by those words which may smell either of the lamp or inkhorn.
He that cannot forgive others breaks the bridge over which he must pass himself, for every man hath need to be forgiven.
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