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.
EDMUND SPENSERMake haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time.
More Edmund Spenser Quotes
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This iron world bungs down the stoutest hearts to lowest state; for misery doth bravest minds abate.
EDMUND SPENSER -
I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.
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What more felicity can fall to creature, than to enjoy delight with liberty?
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The noblest mind the best contentment has.
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A 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 SPENSER -
Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.
EDMUND SPENSER -
Laws ought to be fashioned unto the manners and conditions of the people whom they are meant to benefit, and not imposed upon them according to the simple rule of right.
EDMUND SPENSER -
Man’s wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.
EDMUND SPENSER -
To be wise and eke to love, Is granted scarce to gods above.
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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.
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For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,And by eternall doome of Fate’s decree,Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.
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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.
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Greatest god below the sky.
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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?
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Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.
EDMUND SPENSER