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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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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.
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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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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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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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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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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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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.
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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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