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Since thou wouldst needs, bewitched with some ill charms, Be buried in those monumental arms: As we can wish, is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.

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
Light
Ill
Bewitched
Earth
Thou
Wouldst
May
Arms
Monumental
Needs
Since
Charms
Good
Lying
Limbs
Upon
Tender
Wish
Buried
Night
Charm

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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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 is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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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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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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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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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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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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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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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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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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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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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.
Edmund Waller