Quotes from Edmund Spenser

Her angel's face, As the great eye of heaven shined bright, And made a sunshine in the shady place.

Beauty is not, as fond men misdeem, an outward show of things that only seem.

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

For easy things, that may be got at will, Most sorts of men do set but little store.

Greatest god below the sky.

Bright as does the morning star appear, Out of the east with flaming locks bedight, To tell the dawning day is drawing near.

For all that faire is, is by nature good;That is a signe to know the gentle blood.

It is the mind that maketh good of ill that maketh wretch or happy rich or poor.

I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme From that time unto this season I received nor rhyme nor reason.

Such is the power of love in gentle mind, That it can alter all the course of kind.

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

Death is an equall doome To good and bad, the common In of rest.

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

Hark, how the cheerful birds do chaunt their lays, and carol of love's praise.

They that haue much, feare much to loose thereby, And store of cares doth follow riches store.

O Who can tell The hidden power of herbes, and might of Magick spell?

Ah lucklesse babe, borne vnder cruell starre, And in dead parents balefull ashes bred, Full litle weenest thou, what sorrowes are Left thee for portion of thy liuelihed, Poore Orphane in the wide world scattered, As budding braunch rent from the natiue tree, And throwen forth, till it be withered: Such is the state of men: thus enter wee Into this life with woe, and end with miseree.

With golden giftes and many a guilefull word Entyced her, to him for accord. O who may not with gifts and words be tempted?

Deare knight, as deare, as euer knight was deare, That all these sorrowes suffer for my sake, High heuen behold the tedious toyle, ye for me take . . .

Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, Ease after war, death after life does greatly please.

But nothing new to him was that same pain; Nor pain at all; for he so oft had tried . . . and lov'd so oft in vain.

no Art, nor any Leach's Might . . . Can remedy such hurts; such hurts are hellish Pain.

He oft finds med'cine who his grief imparts But double grief afflicts concealing harts

So long in secret cabin there he held Her captive to his sensual desire