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! — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
“All this world's glory seemeth vain to me, And all their shows but shadows, saving she.” — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
The merry cuckow, messenger of Spring, His trumpet shrill hath thrice already sounded. — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine,the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry,… — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
“The whiles some one did chaunt this louely lay; Ah see, who so faire thing doest faine to see, In springing flowre the image… — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
Make haste therefore, sweet love, whilst it is prime, For none can call again the passed time. — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
In one consort there sat cruel revenge and rancorous despite, disloyal treason and heart-burning hate. — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
Good is no good, but if it be spend, God giveth good for none other end. — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
“There is nothing lost, but may be found, if sought. (No hay nada perdido, que no pueda encontrarse, si se lo busca)” — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
“It is the mynd, that maketh good or ill, That maketh wretch or happie, rich or poore: For some, that hath abundance at his… — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play, A gentle spirit, that lightly did delay Hot Titan's beams, which then did glister fair — Edmund Spenser Copy Share Image
