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

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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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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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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
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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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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn 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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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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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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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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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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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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