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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

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
Strings
Hang
Value
Values
Human
Humans
Things
Dearest
Slender

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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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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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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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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 God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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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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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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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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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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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
Edmund Waller