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

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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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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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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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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 lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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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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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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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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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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The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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