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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.

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
Mine
Shaft
Fate
Wont
High
Feather
Dies
Eagle
Made
Eagles
Soar
Feathers
Mines
Wherewith

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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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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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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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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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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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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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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 that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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