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

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
Dark
Light
Soul
Chinks
Made
Batter
Time
Cottage
Cottages
Lets
Decay

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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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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.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
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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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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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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.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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.
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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.
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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.
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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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