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All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Great
World
Vapor
Vanish
Doth
Mortality
Decay
Gay

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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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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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Fly from wrath sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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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.
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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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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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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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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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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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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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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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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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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
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Change still doth reign, and keep the greater sway.
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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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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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