Woe never wants, where every cause is caught, and rash Occasion makes unquiet life. - Edmund Spenser

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

The waies, through which my weary steps I guyde,
In this delightful land of Faery,
Are so exceeding spacious and wyde,
And sprinckled with such sweet variety,
Of all that pleasant is to eare or eye,
That I nigh rauisht with rare thoughts delight,
My tedious trauell doe forget thereby;
And when I gin to feele decay of might,
It strength to me supplies and chears my dulled spright.

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