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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Therefore
Sweet
Call
Make
Whilst
Time
Haste
Love
Prime
Passed
None

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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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For take thy ballaunce if thou be so wise, And weigh the winds that under heaven doth blow Or weigh the light that in the east doth rise Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow.
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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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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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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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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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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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For of the soule the bodie forme doth take For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.
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O sacred hunger of ambitious minds.
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Those that were up themselves, kept others low Those that were low themselves, held others hard He suffered them to ryse or greater grow But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.
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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 since mine eyes your joyous sight did miss, my cheerful day is turned to cheerless night.
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Change still doth reign, and keep the greater sway.
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Hard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
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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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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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The nightingale is sovereign of song.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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