Edmund Spenser Quotes
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What more felicity can fall to creature, than to enjoy delight with liberty?
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And he that strives to touch the stars, Oft stumbles at a straw.
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Her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place.
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And all for love, and nothing for reward.
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It is the mind that maketh good of ill, that maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor.
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Ill can he rule the great, that cannot reach the small.
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Each goodly thing is hardest to begin.
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He that strives to touch the starts, oft stumbles at a straw.
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And as she lookt about, she did behold, How over that same dore was likewise writ, Be bold, be bold, and every where Be bold, That much she muz'd, yet could not construe it By any ridling skill, or commune wit. At last she spyde at that same roomes upper end, Another yron dore, on which was writ, Be not too bold.
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Calm was the day, and through the trembling air Sweet-breathing Zephyrus did softly play- A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair
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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 felicitie can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with libertie, And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie, To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature.
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And in his hand a sickle he did holde, To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.
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The noblest mind the best contentment has.
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Gold all is not that doth golden seem.
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A monster, which the Blatant beast men call, A dreadfull feend of gods and men ydrad.
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But Justice, though her dome doom she doe prolong, Yet at the last she will her owne cause right.
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Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, And blesseth her with his two happy hands.
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Who will not mercie unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?
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Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war, death after life does greatly please.
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The poets' scrolls will outlive the monuments of stone. Genius survives; all else is claimed by death.
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But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad; Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.
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No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.
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That darksome cave they enter, where they find That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, Musing full sadly in his sullein mind.