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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.
Edmund Spenser
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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Dread
Loving
Thoughts
Joyless
Divine
Languish
Heart
Pine
Love
Hateful
Foul
Jealousy
More quotes by Edmund Spenser
Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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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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Nothing under heaven so strongly doth allure the sense of man, and all his mind possess, as beauty's love.
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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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Bright as does the morning star appear, Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.
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Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
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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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So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.
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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 let us love, dear Love, like as we ought Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.
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Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.
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Change still doth reign, and keep the greater sway.
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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For if good were not praised more than ill, None would chuse goodness of his own free will.
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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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For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.
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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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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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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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