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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Hardest
Begin
Thing
Goodly

More quotes by Edmund Spenser

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For take thy ballaunce if thou be so wise, And weigh the winds that under heaven doth blow Or weigh the light that in the east doth rise Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow.
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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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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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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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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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How many great ones may remember'd be, Which in their days most famously did flourish, Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see, But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish, Because the living cared not to cherish No gentle wits, through pride or covetize, Which might their names forever memorize!
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Change still doth reign, and keep the greater sway.
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Nothing under heaven so strongly doth allure the sense of man, and all his mind possess, as beauty's love.
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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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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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All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
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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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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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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
Edmund Spenser
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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