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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
Last
Fresh
Beams
Forth
Gloomy
Golden
Beam
Greatest
Gate
Open
Mate
Came
Shaking
Heaven
Mates
Hurls
Lasts
Gates
Aurora

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Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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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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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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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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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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For since mine eyes your joyous sight did miss, my cheerful day is turned to cheerless night.
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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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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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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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How many great ones may remember'd be, Which in their days most famously did flourish, Of whom no word we hear, nor sign now see, But as things wip'd out with a sponge do perish, Because the living cared not to cherish No gentle wits, through pride or covetize, Which might their names forever memorize!
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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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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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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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