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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?

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Grows
Entreat
Desire
Dissolved
Comes
Ice
Great
Rejection
Love
Hot
Like
Harder
Cold
Fire

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Sluggish idleness--the nurse of sin.
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I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.
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The man whom nature's self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
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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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Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
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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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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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Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion
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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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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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For evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
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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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In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
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All flesh doth frailty breed!
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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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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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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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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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