Edmund Spenser

So let us love, deare Love, lyke as we ought; Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

Most glorious Lord of lyfe that on this day, Didst make thy triumph over death and sin: And, having harrowd hell, didst bring away, Captivity thence captive, us to win.

What then can move her? if nor merth, nor mone, She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone.

Of this worlds theatre in which we stay, My love lyke the spectator ydly sits Beholding me that all the pageants play, Disguysing diversly my troubled wits. Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy:

Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee.

The merry cuckow, messenger of spring His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded.

See how the tyrannesse doth joy to see The huge massacres which her eyes do make.

I learned have, not to despise, What ever thing seemes small in common eyes.

Of such deep learning little had he neede, Ne yet of Latine, ne of Greeke, that breede Doubts mongst Divines, and difference of texts, From whence arise diversitie of sects, And hatefull heresies.

For deeds do die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men do as themselves decay; But wise words, taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for aye; Nor may with storming showers be washed away; Nor bitter-breathing winds, …

All, that in this world is great or gay, Doth as a vapour vanish, and decay.

What more felicitie can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with libertie, And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie, To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature.

To kerke the narre from God more farre, Has bene an old-sayd sawe; And he that strives to touche a starre Oft stombles at a strawe.

Is not thilke the mery moneth of May, When love lads masken in fresh aray?

Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine, With Gelliflowres: Bring Coronations, and Sops in wine, Worne of Paramoures. Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies, And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies:

And whither rennes this bevie of ladies bright, Raunged in a rowe?

To be wise and eke to love, Is graunted scarce to God above.

So now they have made our English tongue, a gallimaufray or hodgepodge of al other speches.

Uncouthe, unkiste, sayde the olde famous poete Chaucer.

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

So love is Lord of all the world by right.

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

Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies.

I trow that countenance cannot lie, Whose thoughts are legible in the eie.