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She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Grew
Bathed
Blew
Violet
Roses
Sweetest
Red
Rose
Forrest
Flower
Violets

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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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For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
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Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion
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The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives all else is claimed by death.
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Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
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Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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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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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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For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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A circle cannot fill a triangle, so neither can the whole world, if it were to be compassed, the heart of man a man may as easily fill a chest with grace as the heart with gold. The air fills not the body, neither doth money the covetous mind of man.
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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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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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Greatest god below the sky.
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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Ill seemes (sayd he) if he so valiant be, That he should be so sterne to stranger wight For seldom yet did living creature see That courtesie and manhood ever disagree.
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Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought
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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
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