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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.

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
Littles
Drops
Little
Gloomy
Firsts
Shade
First
Evening
Made
Delight
Men
Gave
Stars
Light
Admiring

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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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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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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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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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The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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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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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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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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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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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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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