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

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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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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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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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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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 that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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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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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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 lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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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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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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