Edmund Spenser

But O the exceeding grace_x000D_ Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,_x000D_ And all his works with mercy doth embrace,_x000D_ That blessed angels, he sends to and fro,_x000D_ To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe.

The noblest mind the best contentment has

What though the sea with waves continuall Doe eate the earth, it is no more at all ; Ne is the earth the lesse, or loseth ought : For whatsoever from one place doth fall Is with the tyde unto another brought : For there is nothing lost, that may be found if sought.

No daintie flowre or herbe that growes on grownd, No arborett with painted blossoms drest And smelling sweete, but there it might be fownd To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al arownd.

I hate the day, because it lendeth light_x000D_ _x000D_ To see all things, but not my love to see.

For of the soule the bodie forme doth take; _x000D_ For the soule is forme, and doth the bodie make.

I was promised on a time - to have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason.

One day I wrote her name upon the strand, But came the waves and washèd it away: Again I wrote it with a second hand, But came the tide, and made my pains his prey.

Gather therefore the Rose, whilst yet is prime, For soon comes age, that will her pride deflower: Gather the Rose of love, whilst yet is time.

Gold all is not that doth golden seem.

All for love, and nothing for reward.

To be wise and eke to love,_x000D_ _x000D_ Is granted scarce to gods above.

Gather the rose of love whilst yet is time.

Ah when will this long weary day have end, And lend me leave to come unto my love? How slowly do the hours their numbers spend! How slowly does sad Time his feathers move!

There is continual spring, and harvest there Continual, both meeting at one time: For both the boughs do laughing blossoms bear, And with fresh colours deck the wanton prime, And eke attonce the heavy trees they climb, Which seem to labour under their fruits load: The whiles the joyous birds make their pastime Amongst the shady leaves, their sweet above, And their true loves without suspicion tell abroad.

Ah! when will this long weary day have end, And lende me leave to come unto my love? - Epithalamion