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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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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
Keeps
Repress
Quiet
Invade
Head
Palace
Doe
Serene
Soul
Palaces
Tea
Fancy
Vapours
Aids
Vapour

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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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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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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'dHe that examples gives will give his aid:For he took flesh, that where his precepts fall,His practice, as a pattern, may prevail.
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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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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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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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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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