Poems by Edmund Spenser

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Ruins of Rome, by Bellay

Ye heavenly spirits, whose ashy cinders lie

Under deep ruins, with huge walls opprest,

But not your praise, the which shall never die

Through your fair verses, ne in ashes rest;

If so be shrilling voice of wight alive

May reach from hence to depth of darkest hell,

Then let those deep Abysses open rive,

by Edmund Spenser

Poem 94

NAthlesse the cruell boy not so content,

would needs the fly pursue:

And in his hand with heedlesse hardiment,

him caught for to subdue.

But when on it he hasty hand did lay,

the Bee him stung therefore:

Now out alasse (he cryde) and welaway,

I wounded am full sore:

by Edmund Spenser

Sonnet II

VNquiet thought, whom at the first I bred,

Of th'inward bale of my loue pined hart:

and sithens haue with sighes and sorrowes fed,

till greater then my wombe thou woxen art.

Breake forth at length out of the inner part,

in which thou lurkest lyke to vipers brood:

and seeke some succour both to ease my smart

and also to sustayne thy selfe with food.

by Edmund Spenser

Sonnet LXXXI

Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,

with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:

fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,

or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.

Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,

with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:

fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark

her goodly light with smiles she driues away.

by Edmund Spenser

Poem 95

VNto his mother straight he weeping came,

and of his griefe complayned:

Who could not chose but laugh at his fond game,

though sad to see him pained.

Think now (quod she) my sonne how great the smart

of those whom thou dost wound:

Full many thou hast pricked to the hart,

that pitty neuer found:

by Edmund Spenser

Poem 20

BVt let stil Silence trew night watches keepe,

That sacred peace may in assurance rayne,

And tymely sleep, when it is tyme to sleepe,

May poure his limbs forth on your pleasant playne,

The whiles an hundred little winged loues,

Like diuers fethered doues,

Shall fly and flutter round about your bed,

And in the secret darke, that none reproues,

by Edmund Spenser

Poem 13

Behold whiles she before the altar stands

Hearing the holy priest that to her speakes

And blesseth her with his two happy hands,

How the red roses flush vp in her cheekes,

And the pure snow with goodly vermill stayne,

Like crimsin dyde in grayne,

That euen th'Angels which continually,

About the sacred Altare doe remaine,

by Edmund Spenser

Mutability

When I bethink me on that speech whilere,

Of Mutability, and well it weigh:

Me seems,that though she all unworthy were

Of the Heav'ns Rule; yet very sooth to say,

In all things else she bears the greatest sway.

Which makes me loathe this state of life so tickle,

And love of things so vain to cast away;

Whose flow'ring pride, so fading and so fickle,

by Edmund Spenser

So Let Us Love

Most glorious Lord of life! that on this day

Didst make thy triumph over death and sin,

And having harrowed hell, didst bring away

Captivity thence captive, us to win:

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin;

And grant that we, for whom Thou diddest die,

Being, with thy dear blood, clean washed from sin,

May live for ever in felicity;

by Edmund Spenser

And is there care in heaven, and is there love

In heavenly spirits to us creatures base,

That may compassion of our evils move?

There is : else much more wretched were the case

Of men than beasts: but oh! the exceeding grace

Of highest God, that loves his creatures so,

And all his works with mercy doth embrace;

That blessed angels He sends to and fro,

by Edmund Spenser

Sonnet XXVI

SWeet is the Rose, but growes vpon a brere;

Sweet is the Iunipere, but sharpe his bough;

sweet is the Eglantine, but pricketh nere;

sweet is the firbloome, but his braunches rough.

Sweet is the Cypresse, but his rynd is tough,

sweet is the nut, but bitter is his pill;

sweet is the broome-flowre, but yet sowre enough;

and sweet is Moly, but his root is ill.

by Edmund Spenser

An Hymne In Honour Of Love

Love, that long since hast to thy mighty powre

Perforce subdude my poor captived hart,

And raging now therein with restlesse stowre,

Doest tyrannize in everie weaker part,

Faine would I seeke to ease my bitter smart

By any service I might do to thee,

Or ought that else might to thee pleasing bee.

And now t'asswage the force of this new flame,

by Edmund Spenser