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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Show
Hope
Others
Shows
Ever
Unto
Mercy

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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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All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
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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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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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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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For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
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Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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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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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
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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.
Edmund Spenser
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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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Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.
Edmund Spenser
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My Love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?
Edmund Spenser
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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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Greatest god below the sky.
Edmund Spenser
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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
Edmund Spenser
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Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought
Edmund Spenser