Quotes
Quotes - Spenser
For all that faire is, is by nature good;
That is a signe to know the gentle blood.
To kerke the narre from God more farre,
Has bene an old-sayd sawe;
And he that strives to touche a starre
Oft stombles at a strawe.
Full little knowest thou that hast not tride,
What hell it is in suing long to bide:
To loose good dayes, that might be better spent;
To wast long nights in pensive discontent;
To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow;
To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow.
. . . . . . . . .
To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares;
To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires;
To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne,
To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne.
Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end,
That doth his life in so long tendance spend!
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.
I hate the day, because it lendeth light
To see all things, but not my love to see.
Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take.
I was promised on a time
To have reason for my rhyme;
From that time unto this season,
I received nor rhyme nor reason.
Behold, whiles she before the altar stands,
Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes,
And blesseth her with his two happy hands.
Sleep after toil, port after stormy seas, ease after war, death after life does greatly please.
And through the hall there walked to and fro A jolly yeoman, marshall of the same, Whose name was Appetite; he did bestow Both guestes and meate, whenever in they came, And knew them how to order without blame.
And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore, The deare remembrance of his dying Lord, For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore.
The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded.
O happy earth, Whereon thy innocent feet doe ever tread!
One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washed it away; Agayne I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tyde and made my paynes his prey.
And thus of all my harvest-hope I have Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.
It is the mind that maketh good of ill, that maketh wretch or happy, rich or poor.
Entire affection hateth nicer hands.
Don Chaucer. well of English undefyled On Fame's eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.
Who will not mercie unto others show, How can he mercie ever hope to have?
There grewe an aged tree on the greene; A goodly Oake sometime had it bene, With armes full strong and largely displayed, But of their leaves they were disarayde The bodie bigge, and mightely pight, Thoroughly rooted, and of wond'rous hight; Whilome had bene the king of the field, And mochell mast to the husband did yielde, And with his nuts larded many swine: But now the gray mosse marred his rine; His bared boughes were beaten with stormes, His toppe was bald, and wasted with wormes, His honour decayed, his brauches sere.
Yet was he but a squire of low degree.
Like as a feareful partridge, that is fledd 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 jawes her ready for to teare.
For take thy ballaunce if thou be so wise, And weigh the winds that under heaven doth blow; Or weigh the light that in the east doth rise; Or weigh the thought that from man's mind doth flow.
And with unwearied fingers drawing out The lines of life, from living knowledge hid.
