For deeds to die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men to as themselves decay, But wise words taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for ay.
EDMUND SPENSERFor deeds to die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men to as themselves decay, But wise words taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for ay.
EDMUND SPENSERThis iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.
EDMUND SPENSERAll that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
EDMUND SPENSERWho will not mercy unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
EDMUND SPENSERNo 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.
EDMUND SPENSERBe bold, and everywhere be bold.
EDMUND SPENSERAnd he that strives to touch the stars Oft stumbles at a straw.
EDMUND SPENSERAll flesh doth frailty breed!
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.
EDMUND SPENSERAll that in this world is great or gay, Doth, as a vapor, vanish and decay.
EDMUND SPENSERUnhappie Verse, the witnesse of my unhappie state, Make thy selfe fluttring wings of thy fast flying Thought.
EDMUND SPENSERSluggish idleness–the nurse of sin.
EDMUND SPENSERSo passeth, in the passing of a day, Of mortal life the leaf, the bud, the flower.
EDMUND SPENSERA circle cannot fill a triangle, so neither can the whole world, if it were to be compassed, the heart of man; a man may as easily fill a chest with grace as the heart with gold. The air fills not the body, neither doth money the covetous mind of man.
EDMUND SPENSERThankfulness is the tune of angels.
EDMUND SPENSERAh! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? – Epithalamion
EDMUND SPENSER