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 SPENSERThrough 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 SPENSERThe man whom nature’s self had made to mock herself, and truth to imitate.
EDMUND SPENSERFor evil deeds may better than bad words be borne.
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 SPENSERFor 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 SPENSERBut times do change and move continually.
EDMUND SPENSERFor 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 SPENSERBright as does the morning star appear, Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.
EDMUND SPENSERHard it is to teach the old horse to amble anew.
EDMUND SPENSERAll that in this delightful garden grows should happy be and have immortal bliss.
EDMUND SPENSERFor easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.
EDMUND SPENSERFor whatsoever from one place doth fall, Is with the tide unto an other brought: For there is nothing lost, that may be found, if sought.
EDMUND SPENSERIn vain he seeketh others to suppress, Who hath not learn’d himself first to subdue.
EDMUND SPENSERBut angels come to lead frail minds to rest in chaste desires, on heavenly beauty bound. You frame my thoughts, and fashion me within; you stop my tongue, and teach my heart to speak.
EDMUND SPENSERAll sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid.
EDMUND SPENSERLike as the culver on the bared bough Sits mourning for the absence of her mate.
EDMUND SPENSER