Quotes from Edmund Spenser

Ah for pittie, wil ranke Winters rage, These bitter blasts neuer ginne tasswage? The keene cold blowes throug my beaten hyde, All as I were through the body gryde. My ragged rontes all shiver and shake, As doen high Towers in an earthquake: They wont in the wind wagge their wrigle tailes, Perke as Peacock: but nowe it auales.

Woe never wants, where every cause is caught, and rash Occasion makes unquiet life.

Oftimes it haps, that sorrowes of the mynd Find remedie vnsought, which seeking cannot fynd.

O what auailes it of immortall seed To beene ybred and neuer borne to die? Farre better I it deeme to die with speed, Then waste in woe and wailefull miserie. Who dyes the vtmost dolour doth abye, But who that liues, is left to waile his losse: So life is losse, and death felicitie. Sad life worse then glad death: and greater crosse To see friends graue, then dead the graue selfe to engrosse.

Where whenas death shall all the world subdue, Our love shall live, and later life renew.

Yet can he neuer dye, but dying liues, And doth himselfe with sorrow new sustaine, That death and life attonce vnto him giues. And painefull pleasure turnes to pleasing paine. There dwels he euer, miserable swaine, Hatefull both to him selfe, and euery wight; Where he through priuy griefe, and horrour vaine, Is woxen so deform'd, that he has quight Forgot he was a man, and Gealosie is hight.

O why doe wretched men so much desire, To draw their dayes vnto the vtmost date, And doe not rather wish them soone expire, Knowing the miserie of their estate, And thousand perills which them still awate, Tossing them like a boate amid the mayne, That euery houre they knocke at deathes gate? And he that happie seemes and least in payne, Yet is as nigh his end, as he that most doth playne.

For louers heauen must passe by sorrowes hell.

GOE, little booke: thy selfe present, As child whose parent is unkent, To him that is the president Of noblesse and of chevalree:

a mortal thing so to immortalize

Much like to the mole in Æsopes fable, that, being blynd her selfe, would in no wise be perswaded that any beast could see.

But double griefs afflict concealing hearts, As raging flames who striveth to suppress.

His louely words her seemd due recompence Of all her passed paines: one louing howre For many yeares of sorrow can dispence: A dram of sweete is worth a pound of sowre: Shee has forgott, how many, a woeful stowre For him she late endurd; she speakes no more Of past . . . Before her stands her knight, for whom she toyld so sore.

They cannot finde that path, which first was showne, But wander too and fro in waies vnknowne . . .

Besides, the sundry motions of your Spheares, So sundry waies and fashions as clerkes faine, "Some in short space, and some in longer yeares; What is the same but alteration plaine? Onely the starrie skie doth still remaine: Yet do the Starres and Signes therein still moue, And euen itself is mov'd, as wizards saine. But ALL THAT MOUETH, DOTH MUTATION LOUE: Therefore both you and them to me I subiect proue.

And later times thinges more vnknowne shall show. Why then should witlesse man so much misweene That nothing is but that which he hath seene? What if within the Moones fayre shining sphere, What if in euery other starre vnseene Of other worldes he happily should heare?

Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song.

It is the mynd, that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore: For some, that hath abundance at his will, Hath not enough, but wants in greatest store

my delight is all in ioyfulnesse . . .

Well warned to beware with whom he dar'd to dallie.

Lo I the man, whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far vnfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies gentle deeds; Whose prayses hauing slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To blazon broad emongst her learned throng: Fierce warres and faithfull loues shall moralize my song. 2 Helpe then, ô holy Virgin chiefe of nine, Thy weaker Nouice to performe thy will

Huge sea of sorrow, and tempestuous griefe, Wherein my feeble barke is tossed long, Far from the hoped hauen of reliefe, Why doe thy cruel billowes beat so strong, And thy moyst mountaines each on others throng, Threatening to swallow vp my fearfull lyfe?

The waies, through which my weary steps I guyde, In this delightful land of Faery, Are so exceeding spacious and wyde, And sprinckled with such sweet variety, Of all that pleasant is to eare or eye, That I nigh rauisht with rare thoughts delight, My tedious trauell doe forget thereby; And when I gin to feele decay of might, It strength to me supplies and chears my dulled spright.

He seekes out mighty charmes , to trouble sleepy mindes.