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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

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
Cursed
Vain
Rain
Poor
Vexed
Sailors
Shepherds
Prayed
Sailor

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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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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 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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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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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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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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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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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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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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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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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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