Edmund Waller Quotes
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Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
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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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So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
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Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.
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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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Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
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Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.
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Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
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Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.
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How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
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Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.
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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.
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Give us enough but with a sparing hand.
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Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.
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The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
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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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All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.
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Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.
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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.
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The yielding marble of her snowy breast.
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The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
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His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
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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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There is a garden in her faceWhere roses and white lilies blow;A heavenly paradise is that place,Wherein all pleasant fruits do flow:There cherries grow which none may buyTill 'Cherry-ripe' themselves do cry.