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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.

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
Beauty
Blush
Suffering
Desired
Light
Admired
Come
Retired
Forth
Suffer
Worth
Small

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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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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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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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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 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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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.
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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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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Edmund Waller