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The nightingale is sovereign of song.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Sovereign
Song
Nightingale
Nightingales

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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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Unhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought
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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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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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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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Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
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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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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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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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For all that faire is, is by nature goodThat is a signe to know the gentle blood.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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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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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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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
Edmund Spenser
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
Edmund Spenser