Top 65 Quotes & Sayings by Edmund Waller

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.

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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.

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.

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

Stronger by weakness, wiser men become.

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

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

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

Give us enough but with a sparing hand.

When religion doth with virtue join, it makes a hero like an angel shine.

Happy is she that from the world retires, and carries with her what the world admires.

Ingenious to their ruin, every age improves the art and instruments of rage.

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.

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.

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.

In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.

Thrice happy is that humble pair, Beneath the level of all care! Over whose heads those arrows fly, Of sad distrust and jealousy.

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.

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

The fear of Hell, or aiming to be blest, Savors too much of private interest. This moved not Moses, nor the zealous Paul, Who for their friends abandoned soul and all.

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.

Fade, flowers, fade! Nature will have it so; 'tis but what we in our autumn do.

For all we know Of what the blessed do above Is, that they sing, and that they love. While I listen to thy Voice.

Gods, that never change their state, vary oft their love and hate.

That eagle's fate and mine are one, Which, on the shaft that made him die, Espied a feather of his own, Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Virtue's a stronger guard than brass.

Music so softens and disarms the mind That not an arrow does resistance find.

With wisdom fraught; not such as books, but such as practice taught.

Since thou wouldst needs, bewitched with some ill charms, Be buried in those monumental arms: As we can wish, is, may that earth lie light Upon thy tender limbs, and so good night.

The fear of God is freedom, joy, and peace; And makes all ills that vex us here to cease.

Poets may boast (as safely-vain) Their work shall with the world remain: Both bound together, live, or die, The verses and the prophecy. But who can hope his lines shou'd long Last, in a daily changing tongue? While they are new, envy prevails, And as that dies, our language fails.

All things but one you can restore; the heart you get returns no more.

Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.

And keeps the palace of the soul.

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

The chain that's fixed to the throne of Jove, On which the fabric of our world depends, One link dissolved, the whole creation ends.

He that alone would wise and mighty be,Commands that others love as well as he.Love as he lov'd! - How can we soar so high?-He can add wings when he commands to fly.Nor should we be with this command dismay'd;He that examples gives will give his aid:For he took flesh, that where his precepts fall,His practice, as a pattern, may prevail.

But virtue too, as well as vice, is clad in flesh and blood.

While we converse with her, we mark No want of day, nor think it dark.

Could we forbear dispute, and practice love, We should agree as angels do above. Where love presides, not vice alone does find, No entrance there, hut virtues stay behind: Both faith, and hope, and all the meaner train, Of mortal virtues, at the door remain. Love only enters as a native there, For born in heav'n, it does but sojourn here.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Stronger by weakness, wiser men become As they draw near to their eternal home: Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view That stand upon the threshold of the new.

Under the tropic is our language spoke, And part of Flanders hath receiv'd our yoke.

Happy the innocent whose equal thoughts are free from anguish as they are from faults.

The soul's dark cottage, batter'd and decay'd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made.

His kingdom come!" For this we pray in vain, Unless He does in our affections reign. How fond it were to wish for such a King, And no obedience to his sceptre bring, Whose yoke is easy, and His burthen light; His service freedom, and His judgments right.

If its length be not considered a merit, it hath no other.