|John Bartlett (18201905). Familiar Quotations, 10th ed. 1919.|
|Edmund Waller. (16061687)|
| The yielding marble of her snowy breast.|
| On a Lady passing through a Crowd of People.|
| That eagles 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. 1
| To a Lady singing a Song of his Composing.|
| 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.
| On a Girdle.|
| For all we know|
Of what the blessed do above
Is, that they sing, and that they love.
| While I listen to thy Voice.|
| Poets that lasting marble seek|
Must come in Latin or in Greek.
| Of English Verse.|
| Under the tropic is our language spoke,|
And part of Flanders hath receivd our yoke.
| Upon the Death of the Lord Protector.|
| 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.
| Go, Lovely Rose.|
| How small a part of time they share|
That are so wondrous sweet and fair!
| Go, Lovely Rose.|
| Illustrious acts high raptures do infuse,|
And every conqueror creates a muse.
| Panegyric on Cromwell.|
| In such green palaces the first kings reignd,|
Slept in their shades, and angels entertaind;
With such old counsellors they did advise,
And by frequenting sacred groves grew wise.
| On St. Jamess Park.||
| And keeps the palace of the soul. 2|
| Of Tea.|
| Poets lose half the praise they should have got,|
Could it be known what they discreetly blot.
| Upon Roscommons Translation of Horace, De Arte Poetica.|
| Could we forbear dispute and practise love,|
We should agree as angels do above.
| Divine Love. Canto iii.|
| The souls dark cottage, batterd and decayd,|
Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. 3
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.
| On the Divine Poems.|
So in the Libyan fable it is told
That once an eagle, stricken with a dart,
Said, when he saw the fashion of the shaft,
With our own feathers, not by others hands,
Are we now smitten.
Æschylus: Fragm. 123 (Plumptres Translation).
So the struck eagle, stretchd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wingd the shaft that quiverd in his heart.
Lord Byron: English Bards and Scotch Reviewers, line 826.
Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,
See their own feathers pluckd to wing the dart
Which rank corruption destines for their heart.
Thomas Moore: Corruption. [back]
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.Lord Byron: Childe Harold, canto ii. stanza 6. [back]
See Daniel, Quotation 1.
To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.Samuel Rogers: Pæstum. [back]