Edmund Spenser

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

And in his hand a sickle he did holde, To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.

A monster, which the Blatant beast men call, A dreadfull feend of gods and men ydrad.

But Justice, though her dome [doom] she doe prolong, Yet at the last she will her owne cause right.

Ill can he rule the great, that cannot reach the small.

Who will not mercie unto others show, How can he mercy ever hope to have?

Me seemes the world is runne quite out of square, From the first point of his appointed sourse, And being once amisse growes daily wourse and wourse.

As withered weed through cruell winters tine, That feeles the warmth of sunny beames reflection, Liftes up his head, that did before decline And gins to spread his leafe before the faire sunshine.

For all that Nature by her mother-wit Could frame in earth.

Dan Chaucer, well of English undefyled, On Fames eternall beadroll worthie to be fyled.

And as she lookt about, she did behold, How over that same dore was likewise writ, Be bold, be bold, and every where Be bold, That much she muz'd, yet could not construe it By any ridling skill, or commune wit. At last she spyde at that …

Roses red and violets blew, And all the sweetest flowres that in the forrest grew.

Her berth was of the wombe of morning dew, And her conception of the joyous Prime.

Into the woods thenceforth in hast she went, To seeke for hearbes, that mote him remedy; For she of hearbes had great intendiment, Taught of the Nymphe, which from her infancy Her nourced had in trew Nobility: There, whether it divine …

Through thicke and thin, both over banke and bush In hope her to attaine by hooke or crooke.

Eftsoones they heard a most melodious sound.

And all for love, and nothing for reward.

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

And is there care in Heaven? And is there love In heavenly spirits to these Creatures bace?

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.

Is not short paine well borne, that brings long ease, And layes the soul to sleepe in quiet grave? Sleepe after toyle, port after stormie seas, Ease after warre, death after life does greatly please.

That darksome cave they enter, where they find That cursed man, low sitting on the ground, Musing full sadly in his sullein mind.

Entire affection hateth nicer hands.

As when in Cymbrian plaine An heard of bulles, whom kindly rage doth sting, Doe for the milky mothers want complaine, And fill the fieldes with troublous bellowing.