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For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
May
Better
Borne
Deeds
Evil
Words

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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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All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
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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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Then came October, full of merry glee.
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So much more profitable and gracious is doctrine by example than by rule.
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The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowres That in the forrest grew.
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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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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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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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Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
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Greatest god below the sky.
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Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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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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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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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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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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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
Edmund Spenser