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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Flower
Time
Love
Whilst
Gather
Rose

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Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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For of the soule the bodie forme doth take For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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There learned arts do flourish in great honour And poets's wits are had in peerless price Religion hath lay power, to rest upon her, Advancing virtue, and suppressing vice. For end all good, all grace there freely grows, Had people grace it gratefully to use: For God His gifts there plenteously bestows, But graceless men them greatly do abuse.
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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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For all that faire is, is by nature goodThat is a signe to know the gentle blood.
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So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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But angels come to lead frail minds to rest in chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within you stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak.
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So Orpheus did for his owne bride, So I unto my selfe alone will sing, The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
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Waking love suffereth no sleepe: Say, that raging love dothe appall the weake stomacke: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musicall.
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How many great ones may remember'd be, Which in their days most famously did flourish, Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see, But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish, Because the living cared not to cherish No gentle wits, through pride or covetize, Which might their names forever memorize!
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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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Men, when their actions succeed not as they would, are always ready to impute the blame thereof to heaven, so as to excuse their own follies.
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All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
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At last, the golden orientall gate Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre, And Phoebus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate, Came dauncing forth, shaking his dewie hayre And hurls his glistring beams through gloomy ayre.
Edmund Spenser
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Full many mischiefs follow cruel wrath Abhorred bloodshed and tumultuous strife Unmanly murder and unthrifty scath, Bitter despite, with rancor's rusty knife And fretting grief the enemy of life All these and many evils more, haunt ire.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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