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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
Nightingale
Nightingales
Sovereign
Song

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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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Rising glory occasions the greatest envy, as kindling fire the greatest smoke.
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All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
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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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For of the soule the bodie forme doth take For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
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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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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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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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This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state for misery doth bravest minds abate.
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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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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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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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Waking love suffereth no sleepe: Say, that raging love dothe appall the weake stomacke: Say, that lamenting love marreth the musicall.
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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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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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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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