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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
Reaped
Nought
Crop
Crops
Harvest
Thus
Hope
Care

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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives all else is claimed by death.
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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
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So Orpheus did for his owne bride, So I unto my selfe alone will sing, The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
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Those that were up themselves, kept others low Those that were low themselves, held others hard He suffered them to ryse or greater grow But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.
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The noblest mind the best contentment has
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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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Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.
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Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease,And layes the soul to sleepe in quiet grave?Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas,Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please.
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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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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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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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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Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
Edmund Spenser