Edmund Spenser Quotes - Page 6

Ah, fool! faint heart fair lady ne'er could win.

Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled,On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.

Go little book, thy self present, As child whose parent is unkent: To him that is the president Of noblesse and of chivalry, And if that Envy bark at thee, As sure it will, for succour flee.

The Patron of true Holinesse, Foule Errour doth defeate: Hypocrisie him to entrappe, Doth to his home entreate.

Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end.

Where justice grows, there grows eke greater grace.

At last, the golden orientall gate Of greatest heaven gan to open fayre, And Phoebus, fresh as brydegrome to his mate, Came dauncing forth, shaking his dewie hayre; And hurls his glistring beams through gloomy ayre.

I trow that countenance cannot lie,Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.

There learned arts do flourish in great honour And poets's wits are had in peerless price; Religion hath lay power, to rest upon her, Advancing virtue, and suppressing vice. For end all good, all grace there freely grows, Had people grace it gratefully to use: For God His gifts there plenteously bestows, But graceless men them greatly do abuse.

I learned have, not to despise,What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.

Hasty wrath and heedless hazardy do breed repentance late and lasting infamy.

Who 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.

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.

What man that sees the ever-whirling wheel Of Change, the which all mortal things doth sway.

All sorts of flowers the which on earth do spring In goodly colours gloriously arrayed; Go to my love, where she is careless laid

good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete? What! hath some wolfe thy tender lambes ytorne? Or is thy bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete? Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?

So Orpheus did for his owne bride, So I unto my selfe alone will sing, The woods shall to me answer and my Eccho ring.

For of the soule the bodie forme doth take; For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.

Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.