Quote

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.

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
People
Acting
Use
Artist
Approve
May
Judge
Better
Excuse
Play
Delight
Made
Judging
Things
Knowing

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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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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