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Fly from wrath sad be the sights and bitter fruits of war a thousand furies wait on wrathful swords.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Fruit
Wrathful
Wait
Furies
Sight
Swords
Thousand
Sights
Waiting
Fury
War
Fruits
Wrath
Bitter

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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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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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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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At last, the golden orientall gate Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre, And Phoebus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate, Came dauncing forth, shaking his dewie hayre And hurls his glistring beams through gloomy ayre.
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Oft stumbles at a straw.
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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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All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
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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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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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Change still doth reign, and keep the greater sway.
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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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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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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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My Love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat?
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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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