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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
Thus
Hope
Care
Reaped
Nought
Crop
Crops
Harvest

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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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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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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
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Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.
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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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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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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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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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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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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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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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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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So let us love, dear Love, like as we ought Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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The noblest mind the best contentment has
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