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 SPENSERWho 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.
More Edmund Spenser Quotes
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And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.
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Fresh spring the herald of love’s mighty king.
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The man whom nature’s self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
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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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All that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
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The Patron of true Holinesse, Foule Errour doth defeate: Hypocrisie him to entrappe, Doth to his home entreate.
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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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No dainty flower or herbs that grows on ground, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweet, but there it might be found To bud out fair, and throw her sweet smells all around.
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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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Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? – Epithalamion
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Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.
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Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.
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A sweet attractive kind of grace, A full assurance given by looks, Continual comfort in a face, The lineaments of Gospel books– I trow that countenance cannot lye Whose thoughts are legible in the eye.
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Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.
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Through knowledge we behold the world’s creation, How in his cradle first he fostered was; And judge of Nature’s cunning operation, How things she formed of a formless mass.
EDMUND SPENSER