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

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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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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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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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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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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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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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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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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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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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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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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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