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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Learned
Small
Eyes
Common
Eye
Ever
Thing
Despise

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Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!
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Ill seemes (sayd he) if he so valiant be, That he should be so sterne to stranger wight For seldom yet did living creature see That courtesie and manhood ever disagree.
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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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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 if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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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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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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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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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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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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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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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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Men, when their actions succeed not as they would, are always ready to impute the blame thereof to heaven, so as to excuse their own follies.
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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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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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