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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.

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
Whose
Arrows
Level
Distrust
Levels
Pair
Happy
Jealousy
Care
Pairs
Beneath
Heads
Humble
Thrice

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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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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 lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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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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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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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 soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
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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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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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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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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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