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For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Good
Would
Praised
Ill
Goodness
Praise
None
Free

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In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
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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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The noblest mind the best contentment has
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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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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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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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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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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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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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The poets scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives all else is claimed by death.
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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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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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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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A circle cannot fill a triangle, so neither can the whole world, if it were to be compassed, the heart of man a man may as easily fill a chest with grace as the heart with gold. The air fills not the body, neither doth money the covetous mind of man.
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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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I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.
Edmund Spenser
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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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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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