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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

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
Flesh
Blood
Virtue
Wells
Well
Clad
Vice
Vices

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Poets that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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And keeps the palace of the soul.
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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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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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To love is to believe, to hope, to know 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
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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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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
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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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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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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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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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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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