Edmund Waller

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

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

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.

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

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

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

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.

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

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

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

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

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

All human things Of dearest value hang on slender strings.