Edmund Spenser

“ LXXIX Men call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye daily such doe see:
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me.
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be,
Shall turne to nought and lose that glorious hew;
But onely that is permanent, and free
From frayle corruption that doth flesh ensew.
That is true beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed,
Deriv’d from that fayre Spirit from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed.
He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made;
All other fayre, lyke flowres, untymely fade. ”

“ Faire thing on earth, ne feed on false delight
Of ought that framed is of mortall mould,
Sith that my fairest flower is faded quight;
For all I see is vaine and transitorie, 495
Ne will be held in any stedfast plight,
But in a moment loose their grace and glorie.
“And ye, fond Men! on Fortunes wheele that ride,
Or in ought under heaven repose assurance,
Be it riches, beautie, or honours pride, 500
Be sure that they shall have no long endurance,
But ere ye be aware will flit away;
For nought of them is yours, but th’only usance
Of a small time, which none ascertains may. ”

“ Cease now, my Muse, now cease thy sorrows' source,
O joyful verse!
"Why wail we then? why weary we the gods with plaints,
As if some evil were to her betight?
She reigns a goddess now among the saints,
That whilome was the saint of shepheards light,
And is installed now in heavens' height,
I see thee, blessed soul! I see
Walk in Elysian fields so free.
O happy herse!
Might I once come to thee, (O that I might!)
O joyful verse!
"Unwise and wretched men, to weet what's good or ill,
We deem of death as doom of ill desert ”

“ In his writings we have the same fertility of imagination, the same vivid powers of description, the same nervous grasp of his subject;—but that subject is restricted and unpervading; and he lavishes the exuberance of his invention and fancy in depicting manners and customs destined to be forgotten by succeeding generations, Shakspeare is the poet of the passions, while Spenser is the poet of habit: the one has an universal command over our intellect ”

“ Sonnet LXXXI FAYRE is my love, when her fayre golden heares,
With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke:
Fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appears,
Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke.
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
Fayre when that cloud of pryde which oft doth dark
Her goodly light with smiles she drives away,
But fayrest she, when so she doth display
The gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
Throgh which her words so wise do make their way
To beare the message of her gentle spright. ”

“ Other some not so well seen in the English tongue, as perhaps in other languages, if they happen to hear an old word, albeit very natural and significant, cry out straightway, that we speak no English, but gibberish, or rather such as in old time Evander’s mother spake: whose first shame is, that they are not ashamed, in their own mother tongue, to be counted strangers and aliens. The second shame no less than the first, that what so they understand not, they straightway deem to be senseless, and not at all to be understood. ”

“ It sited was in fruitfull soyle of old,
2 And girt in with two walles on either side;
The one of yron, the other of bright gold,
4 That none might thorough breake, nor ouer-stride:
And double gates it had, which opened wide,
6 By which both in and out men moten pas;
Th'one faire and fresh, the other old and dride:
8 Old Genius the porter of them was,
Old Genius, the which a double nature has. ”

“ So would he worke the silly man by treason
To buy his masters frivolous good will,
That had not power to doo him good or ill. 890
So pitifull a thing is suters state!
Most miserable man, whom wicked fate
Hath brought to court, to sue for had-ywist,
That few have found, and manie one hath mist!
Full little knowest thou that hast not tride, 895
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 ”

“ Sing now, ye shepheards' daughters, sing no moe
The songs that Colin made you in her praise,
But into weeping turn your wanton lays.
O heavy herse!
Now is time to die: nay, time was long ago:
O careful verse!
"Whence is it, that the flowret of the field doth fade,
And lieth buried long in Winter's bale;
Yet, soon as Spring his mantle hath display'd,
It flow'reth fresh, as it should never fail?
But thing on earth that is of most avail,
As virtue's branch and beauty's bud,
Reliven not for any good. ”