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

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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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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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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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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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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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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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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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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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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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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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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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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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.
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