Edmund waller quotes

Seeming devotion does but gild a knave, That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave; But where religion does with virtue join, It makes a hero like an angel shine.

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight; Admiring, in the gloomy shade, Those little drops of light.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast, That still the knot, in spite of death, does last; For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul, Prove well that on your part this bond is whole, So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love. Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave, Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have; Well-chosen love is never taught to die, But with our nobler part invades the sky.

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

Small is the worth Of beauty from the light retired: Bid her come forth, Suffer herself to be desired, And not blush so to be admired.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

To love is to believe, to hope, to know; 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!

Since thou wouldst needs, bewitched with some ill charms, Be buried in those monumental arms: As we can wish, is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.

And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.

While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

Go, lovely rose, Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows, When I resemble her to thee, How sweet and fair she seems to be.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

The rising sun complies with our weak sight, First gilds the clouds, then shows his globe of light At such a distance from our eyes, as though He knew what harm his hasty beams would do.

Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; but time and thunder pay respect to bays.

Poets may boast (as safely-vain) Their work shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live, or die, The verses and the prophecy. But who can hope his lines shou'd long Last, in a daily changing tongue? While they are new, envy prevails, And as that dies, our language fails.

He that alone would wise and mighty be,Commands that others love as well as he.Love as he lov'd! - How can we soar so high?-He can add wings when he commands to fly.Nor should we be with this command dismay'd;He that examples gives will give his aid:For he took flesh, that where his precepts fall,His practice, as a pattern, may prevail.

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace; And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?

Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.

His kingdom come!" For this we pray in vain, Unless He does in our affections reign. How fond it were to wish for such a King, And no obedience to his sceptre bring, Whose yoke is easy, and His burthen light; His service freedom, and His judgments right.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

Could we forbear dispute, and practice love, We should agree as angels do above. Where love presides, not vice alone does find, No entrance there, hut virtues stay behind: Both faith, and hope, and all the meaner train, Of mortal virtues, at the door remain. Love only enters as a native there, For born in heav'n, it does but sojourn here.

Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.