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Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

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
Rage
Instruments
Age
War
Art
Improves
Every
Ingenious
Ruin
Ruins

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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.
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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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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
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Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.
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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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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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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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Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so 'tis but what we in our autumn do.
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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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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 that lasting marble seek, Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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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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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.
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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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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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