Edmund Waller

So must the writer, whose productions should Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.

The fear of hell, or aiming to be blest, savors too much of private interest.

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.

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.

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.

Poets that lasting marble seek Must come in Latin or in Greek.

The seas are quiet when the winds give o'er; So calm are we when passions are no more!

Others may use the ocean as their road; Only the English make it their abode.

The lark that shuns on lofty boughs to build, Her humble nest, lies silent in the field.

Tea does our fancy aid, Repress those vapours which the head invade, And keeps that palace of the soul serene.

Circle are praised, not that abound, In largeness, but the exactly round.

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view, That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Could we forbear dispute, and practise love, We should agree as angels do above.

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.

Poets lose half the praise they should have got, Could it be known what they discreetly blot.

His love at once and dread instruct our thought; As man He suffer'd and as God He taught.

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse, And every conqueror creates a muse.

Vexed sailors cursed the rain, for which poor shepherds prayed in vain.

To love is to believe, to hope, to know; Tis an essay, a taste of Heaven below!

How small a part of time they share, That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.