Edmund Waller

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

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

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

And keeps the palace of the soul.

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

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.

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.

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

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