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Then came October, full of merry glee.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Autumn
Full
Came
Glee
October
Merry

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She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.
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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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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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Laws ought to be fashioned unto the manners and conditions of the people whom they are meant to benefit, and not imposed upon them according to the simple rule of right.
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This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state for misery doth bravest minds abate.
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What though the sea with waves continuall Doe eate the earth, it is no more at all Ne is the earth the lesse, or loseth ought : For whatsoever from one place doth fall Is with the tyde unto another brought : For there is nothing lost, that may be found if sought.
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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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Those that were up themselves, kept others low Those that were low themselves, held others hard He suffered them to ryse or greater grow But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.
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So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.
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For since mine eyes your joyous sight did miss, my cheerful day is turned to cheerless night.
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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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Bright as does the morning star appear, Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.
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Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.
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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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Fly from wrath sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
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Yet is there one more cursed than they all, That canker-worm, that monster, jealousie, Which eats the heart and feeds upon the gall, Turning all love's delight to misery, Through fear of losing his felicity.
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