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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

Edmund Spenser

For that which all men then did virtue call, Is now called vice; and that which vice was hight, Is now hight virtue, and so used of all: Right now is wrong, and wrong that was is right.
EDMUND SPENSER

Call Man Myself Right Virtue Wrong
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

Action Blame Heaven Man Success
For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,And by eternall doome of Fate’s decree,Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.
EDMUND SPENSER

Bright Eternity Fate Forever Heaven Ourselves
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.
EDMUND SPENSER

Greatness Growth Hard Hold Low Oneself Suffering
And he that strives to touch the stars Oft stumbles at a straw.
EDMUND SPENSER

Fall Stars Strike Touch
The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known, For a man by nothing is so well betrayed As by his manners.
EDMUND SPENSER

Betrayal Man Manner Mindset
But times do change and move continually.
EDMUND SPENSER

Change Move Time
For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
EDMUND SPENSER

Advice Lost Philosophy
All flesh doth frailty breed!
EDMUND SPENSER

Body Flesh Fragile
Be bold, and everywhere be bold.
EDMUND SPENSER

Bold Character Inspirational Personality
Thankfulness is the tune of angels.
EDMUND SPENSER

Angel Gratitude Music One Liner Thankful
Like as the culver on the bared bough Sits mourning for the absence of her mate.
EDMUND SPENSER

Absence Cry Friendship Herself Loss
Full little knowest thou that hast not tried, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To waste long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.
EDMUND SPENSER

Day Fear Feed Goodness Hell Hope Night Sorrow Speed Unknown Wasted
All love is sweet Given or returned And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
EDMUND SPENSER

Love Sweet Voice
Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
EDMUND SPENSER

Evening Fade Fresh Man Morning Taste
The man whom nature’s self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
EDMUND SPENSER

Herself Imitation Man Nature Truth

Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

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Thankfulness is the tune of angels.

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