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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.

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
Fear
Moses
Soul
Paul
Much
Abandoned
Private
Moved
Savors
Hell
Blest
Friends
Zealous
Interest
Aiming

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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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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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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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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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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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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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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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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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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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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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.
Edmund Waller