Edmund Spenser Quotes

English poet (c. 1552 – 1599)

Edmund Spenser (c. 1552 – 13 January 1599) was an English poet, who wrote such pastorals as The Shepheardes Calendar, Astrophell and Colin Clouts Come Home Againe, but is most famous for the multi-layered allegorical romance, The Faerie Queene.

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Alternative Names: Edmund Spencer • Edmund Spenſer • Ed. Sp.

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Aye me, how many perils do enfold
The righteous man, to make him daily fall?
Were not, that heavenly grace doth him uphold,
And steadfast truth acquite him out of all.

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.

There did I finde mine onely faithfull frend
In heauy plight and sad perplexitie;
Whereof I sorie, yet my selfe did bend,
Him to recomfort with my companie.

"O but," quoth she, "great griefe will not be tould,
And can more easily be thought, then said."
"Right so"; quoth he, "but he, that never would,
Could never: will to might gives greatest aid."
"But grief," quoth she, "does great grow displaid,
If then it find not helpe, and breedes despaire."
"Despaire breedes not," quoth he, "where faith is staid."
"No faith so fast," quoth she, "but flesh does paire."
"Flesh may empaire," quoth he, "but reason can repaire."

With golden giftes and many a guilefull word
Entyced her, to him for accord.
O who may not with gifts and words be tempted?

Ay me, how many perils doe enfold The righteous man, to make him daily fall!

Behold, whiles she before the altar stands, Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes, And blesseth her with his two happy hands.

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound.

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

. . . no Art, nor any Leach's Might . . .
Can remedy such hurts; such hurts are hellish Pain.

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

Tell her the joyous Time will not be staid, Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take.

Let therefore nought that great is, therein glorie, / Sith so small thing his happiness may varie.

Vntroubled night they say giues counsell best.

Then came October full of merry glee . . .