Edmund Waller Quotes

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

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

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

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.

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

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

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

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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

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

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.

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.

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

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

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

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

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

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.

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

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

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