Portrait of Edmund Waller, by John Riley, circa 1685
March 3, 1606|
Coleshill, Buckinghamshire, England
|Died||October 21, 1687(aged 81)|
|Resting place||St Mary and All Saints Church, Beaconsfield|
Royal Grammar School, High Wycombe
|Alma mater||King’s College, Cambridge|
The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.
So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.
The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.
Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.
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.
Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.
Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!
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.
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.
His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.
To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!
Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.