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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Evening
Late
State
States
Men
Wretched
Fades
Fresh

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The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
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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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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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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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All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
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A circle cannot fill a triangle, so neither can the whole world, if it were to be compassed, the heart of man a man may as easily fill a chest with grace as the heart with gold. The air fills not the body, neither doth money the covetous mind of man.
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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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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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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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What more felicitie can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with libertie, And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie, To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature.
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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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Fly from wrath sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
Edmund Spenser
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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
Edmund Spenser
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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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She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
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For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
Edmund Spenser
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
Edmund Spenser
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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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For of the soule the bodie forme doth take For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
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