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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.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Brings
Paine
Wells
Borne
Well
Sea
Seas
Long
Quiet
Port
Life
Short
Greatly
Please
Grave
Death
Graves
Doe
Ease
Soul

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In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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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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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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Foul jealousy! that turnest love divine to joyless dread, and makest the loving heart with hateful thoughts to languish and to pine.
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So Orpheus did for his owne bride, So I unto my selfe alone will sing, The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.
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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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Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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Laws ought to be fashioned unto the manners and conditions of the people whom they are meant to benefit, and not imposed upon them according to the simple rule of right.
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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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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
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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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For all that faire is, is by nature goodThat is a signe to know the gentle blood.
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The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives all else is claimed by death.
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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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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She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
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