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For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Little
Things
Men
Sorts
Store
Stores
Easy
Littles
May

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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.
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The noblest mind the best contentment has
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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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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Fly from wrath sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
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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.
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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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Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair
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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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All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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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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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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Greatest god below the sky.
Edmund Spenser
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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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?
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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
Edmund Spenser
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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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