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And keeps the palace of the soul.

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
Palace
Palaces
Keeps
Soul

More quotes by Edmund Waller

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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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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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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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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The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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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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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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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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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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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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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
Edmund Waller