Edmund Spenser - The Faerie Queene

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

Edmund Spenser
But on his breast a bloody cross he bore,
The dear remembrance of his dying Lord.

Edmund Spenser
And painful pleasure turns to pleasing pain.

Edmund Spenser
Fierce wars and faithful loves shall moralize my song.

Edmund Spenser
The general end therefore of all the book is to fashion a gentleman or noble person in virtuous and gentle discipline.

Edmund Spenser
For we by conquest, of our soveraine might,
And by eternall doome of Fate's decree,
Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright.

Edmund Spenser
As the great eye of heaven, shyned bright,
And made a sunshine in the shady place.

Edmund Spenser
As when in Cymbrian plaine
An heard of bulles, whom kindly rage doth sting,
Doe for the milky mothers want complaine,
And fill the fieldes with troublous bellowing.

Edmund Spenser
The noble heart, that harbours virtuous thought,
And is with child of glorious great intent,
Can never rest, until it forth have brought
Th' eternal brood of glory excellent.

Edmund Spenser
How oft do they their silver bowers leave
To come to succour us that succour want!

Edmund Spenser
The gentle minde by gentle deeds is knowne.
For a man by nothing is so well bewrayd,
As by his manners.

Edmund Spenser
But of his cheere did seeme too solemne sad;
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

Edmund Spenser
Who will not mercie unto others show,
How can he mercy ever hope to have?

Edmund Spenser
O happy earth,
Whereon thy innocent feet doe ever tread!

Edmund Spenser
Dan Chaucer, well of English undefiled,
On Fame's eternal beadroll worthy to be filed.

Edmund Spenser
Vaine is the vaunt, and victory unjust, that more to mighty hands, then rightfull cause doth trust.

Edmund Spenser
What man that sees the ever-whirling wheel
Of Change, the which all mortal things doth sway,
But that thereby doth find, and plainly feel,
How Mutability in them doth play
Her cruel sports, to many men's decay?

Edmund Spenser
Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease,
And layes the soul to sleepe in quiet grave?
Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas,
Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please.

Edmund Spenser
For all that Nature by her mother-wit
Could frame in earth.

Edmund Spenser
For who so list into the heavens looke, And search the courses of the rowling spheares, Shall find that from the point, where first they tooke Their setting forth, in these few thousand yeares They all are wandred much; that plaine appears.

Edmund Spenser
Yet neither spinnes, nor cards, ne cares nor fretts, But to her mother Nature all her care she letts.

Edmund Spenser
Man's wretched state, That floures so fresh at morne, and fades at evening late.

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

Edmund Spenser
Like as a fearful partridge, that is fled From the sharpe hauke which her attacked neare, And falls to ground to seeke for succor theare, Whereas the hungry spaniells she does spye, With greedy jaws her ready for to teare.

Edmund Spenser
Why then should witless man so much misween, That nothing is, but that which he hath seene? What if in the Moones faire shining speheare? What if in every other starre unseene, Of other worldes he happily should heare? That nothing is, but that which he hath seene?

Edmund Spenser
Those that were up themselves, kept others low;
Those that were low themselves, held others hard;
He suffered them to ryse or greater grow;
But every one did strive his fellow down to throw.

Edmund Spenser
Like to an almond tree mounted hye On top of greene Selinis all alone, With blossoms brave bedecked daintily; Whose tender locks do tremble every one, At everie little breath, that under heaven is blowne.

Edmund Spenser
A monster, which the Blatant beast men call,
A dreadful fiend of gods and men ydrad.

Edmund Spenser
A cruel crafty crocodile,
Which in false grief hiding his harmful guile,
Doth weep full sore, and sheddeth tender tears.

Edmund Spenser
All that in this delightful garden grows,
Should happy be, and have immortal bliss.

Edmund Spenser