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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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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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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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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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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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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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
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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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