Edmund Waller, FRS (3 March 1606 – 21 October 1687) was an English poet and politician who sat in the House of Commons at various times between 1624 and 1679.
Lampoons, like squibs, may make a present blaze; but time and thunder pay respect to bays.
Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace; And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.
My joy, my grief, my hope, my love, Did all within this circle move!
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; 'Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.
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.
Seeming devotion does but gild a knave, That's neither faithful, honest, just, nor brave; But where religion does with virtue join, It makes a hero like an angel shine.
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.
To man, that was in th' evening made, Stars gave the first delight; Admiring, in the gloomy shade, Those little drops of light.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.
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.
Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.
How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.
Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.
Consent in virtue knit your hearts so fast, That still the knot, in spite of death, does last; For as your tears, and sorrow-wounded soul, Prove well that on your part this bond is whole, So all we know of what they do above, Is that they happy are, and that they love. Let dark oblivion, and the hollow grave, Content themselves our frailer thoughts to have; Well-chosen love is never taught to die, But with our nobler part invades the sky.