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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
Instruments
Age
War
Art
Improves
Every
Ingenious
Ruin
Ruins
Rage

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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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With wisdom fraught not such as books, but such as practice taught.
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
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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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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 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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Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
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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 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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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What use of oaths, of promise, or of test, where men regard no God but interest?
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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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While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.
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Others may use the ocean as their road Only the English make it their abode.
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Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
Edmund Waller