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Oft stumbles at a straw.

Edmund Spenser

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Edmund Spenser
Died: 1599
Died: January 13
Poet
Translator
London
England
Edmund Spencer
Stumbles
Straw
Straws

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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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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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In vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn'd himself first to subdue.
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Men, when their actions succeed not as they would, are always ready to impute the blame thereof to heaven, so as to excuse their own follies.
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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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Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair
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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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Who will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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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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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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And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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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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Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
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Woe to the man that first did teach the cursed steel to bite in his own flesh, and make way to the living spirit!
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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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The fish once caught, new bait will hardly bite.
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For all that faire is, is by nature goodThat is a signe to know the gentle blood.
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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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