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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

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
Spokes
Spoke
Hath
Language
Art
Part
Tropic
Flanders
Yoke

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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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The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
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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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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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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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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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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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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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