Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
And keeps the palace of the soul.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
Though with judgment we on things reflect, Our will determines, not our intellect.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
The yielding marble of her snowy breast.
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.
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.
In such green palaces the first kings reign'd, Slept in their shades, and angels entertain'd With such old counsellors they did advise, And by frequenting sacred groves grew wise.
For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
Why came I so untimely forth Into a world which, wanting thee, Could entertain us with no worth Or shadow of felicity.
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
And as pale sickness does invade, Your frailer part, the breaches made, In that fair lodging still more clear, Make the bright guest, your soul, appear.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
A narrow compass! and yet there Dwelt all that 's good, and all that 's fair; Give me but what this riband bound, Take all the rest the sun goes round.
Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
Poets that lasting marble seek Must carve in Latin or in Greek.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.
Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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.
Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,Lets in new light through chinks that time has made.Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,As they draw near to their eternal home.
More Edmund Waller Quotations (Based on Topics)
Love - Poets - Soul - Literature - Excuse - Fairness - People - Law & Regulation - Envy & Jealousy - Angels - Mind - Lies & Deceit - Home - Time - Happiness - Praise - Belief & Faith - Passion - Hope - View All Edmund Waller Quotations
Rabindranath Tagore - Maya Angelou - Aeschylus - Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Robert Service - Jorge Luis Borges - John Betjeman - Elizabeth Bishop - Dylan Thomas - Aristophanes