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But O the exceeding grace Of highest God, that loves his creatures so, And all his works with mercy doth embrace, That blessed angels, he sends to and fro, To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Embrace
Sends
Blessed
Doth
Creatures
Angels
Highest
Wicked
Works
Mercy
Grace
Serve
Men
Loves
Exceeding
Angel
Foe

More quotes by Edmund Spenser

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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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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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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
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For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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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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For next to Death is Sleepe to be compared Therefore his house is unto his annext: Here Sleepe, ther Richesse, and hel-gate them both betwext.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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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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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.
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Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.
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Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
Edmund Spenser
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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
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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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Fly from wrath sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
Edmund Spenser