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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Crop
Crops
Harvest
Thus
Hope
Care
Reaped
Nought

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Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought
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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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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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This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state for misery doth bravest minds abate.
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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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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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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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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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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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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
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Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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There learned arts do flourish in great honour And poets's wits are had in peerless price Religion hath lay power, to rest upon her, Advancing virtue, and suppressing vice. For end all good, all grace there freely grows, Had people grace it gratefully to use: For God His gifts there plenteously bestows, But graceless men them greatly do abuse.
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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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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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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
Edmund Spenser
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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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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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