Who would ever care to do brave deed, Or strive in virtue others to excel, If none should yield him his deserved meed Due praise, that is the spur of doing well? For if good were not praised more than ill, None would choose goodness of his own free will.
EDMUND SPENSERMan’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
More Edmund Spenser Quotes
-
-
She bathed with roses red, And violets blew. And all the sweetest flowers That in the forest grew.
EDMUND SPENSER -
Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
EDMUND SPENSER -
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.
EDMUND SPENSER -
Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, an outward show of things that only seem.
EDMUND SPENSER -
Joy may you have and gentle hearts content Of your loves couplement: And let faire Venus, that is Queene of love, With her heart-quelling Sonne upon you smile
EDMUND SPENSER -
Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan’s beams, which then did glister fair.
EDMUND SPENSER -
All that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
EDMUND SPENSER -
What more felicity can fall to creature, than to enjoy delight with liberty?
EDMUND SPENSER -
Greatest god below the sky.
EDMUND SPENSER -
But Justice, though her dome she doe prolong, Yet at the last she will her owne cause right.
EDMUND SPENSER -
How many perils doe enfold The righteous man to make him daily fall.
EDMUND SPENSER -
Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
EDMUND SPENSER -
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.
EDMUND SPENSER -
For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.
EDMUND SPENSER -
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.
EDMUND SPENSER