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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
Yoke
Spokes
Spoke
Hath
Language
Art
Part
Tropic
Flanders

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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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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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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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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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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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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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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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.
Edmund Waller
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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Edmund Waller
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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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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
Edmund Waller
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
Edmund Waller
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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.
Edmund Waller