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The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.

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
Ills
Cease
Joy
Freedom
Peace
Fear
Makes
Vex

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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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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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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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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.
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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Edmund Waller
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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.
Edmund Waller