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

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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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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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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
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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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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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