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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.

Edmund Waller

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Edmund Waller
Age: 81 †
Born: 1606
Born: March 3
Died: 1687
Died: October 21
Poet
Politician
Writer
Coleshill
Buckinghamshire
Gentleman that loves the peace
True son of the Church of England and a lover of his countries liberty
Edmund Waller
Sweet
Wastes
Tell
Resemble
Seems
Fairs
Time
Lovely
Fair
Thee
Rose
Waste

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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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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.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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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.
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To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight Admiring, in the gloomy shade, Those little drops of light.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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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.
Edmund Waller
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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Edmund Waller
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
Edmund Waller
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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
Edmund Waller
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Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
Edmund Waller
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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
Edmund Waller
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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Edmund Waller
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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.
Edmund Waller
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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Edmund Waller
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
Edmund Waller
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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.
Edmund Waller