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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
Flanders
Yoke
Spokes
Spoke
Hath
Language
Art
Part
Tropic

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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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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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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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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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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
Edmund Waller
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Edmund Waller