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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

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Open
Mate
Came
Shaking
Heaven
Mates
Hurls
Lasts
Gates
Aurora
Last
Fresh
Beams
Forth
Gloomy
Golden
Beam
Greatest
Gate

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Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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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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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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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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Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.
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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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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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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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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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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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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought
Edmund Spenser
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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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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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For all that faire is, is by nature goodThat is a signe to know the gentle blood.
Edmund Spenser
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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
Edmund Spenser
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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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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.
Edmund Spenser