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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.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Men
Actions
Blame
Succeed
Ready
Impute
Heaven
Thereof
Action
Follies
Always
Folly
Would
Excuse

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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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She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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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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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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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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Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.
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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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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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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.
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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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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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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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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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For take thy ballaunce if thou be so wise, And weigh the winds that under heaven doth blow Or weigh the light that in the east doth rise Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow.
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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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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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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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