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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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
Humble
Field
Shuns
Silent
Lark
Build
Boughs
Fields
Larks
Lies
Nest
Lying
Nests
Lofty
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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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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The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
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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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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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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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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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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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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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