The Poetical Works of Edmund Spenser, Volumen4

C. C. Little and J. Brown, 1839
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Página 259 - Upon the pillours of eternity, That is contrayr to Mutabilitie : For all that moveth doth in change delight: But thence-forth all shall rest eternally With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight: O that great Sabbaoth God graunt me that Sabaoths sight!
Página 215 - Ne spareth he the gentle Poets rime ; But rends without regard of person or of time.
Página 258 - Doe worke their owne perfection so by fate : Then over them Change doth not rule and raigne ; But they raigne over Change, and doe their states maintaine.
Página 257 - Then since within this wide great universe Nothing doth firme and permanent appeare, But all things tost and turned by transverse: What then should let, but I aloft should reare My trophee, and from all the triumph beare? Now...
Página 158 - In vaine," said then old Melibee, " doe men The heavens of their fortunes fault accuse ; Sith l they know best what is the best for them : For they to each such fortune doe diffuse, As they doe know each can most aptly use. For not that, which men covet most, is best ; Nor that thing worst, which men do most refuse ; But fittest is, that all contented rest With that they hold : each hath his fortune in his brest.
Página 248 - With ears of come of every sort, he bore ; And in his hand a sickle he did holde, To reape the ripened fruits the which the earth had yold.
Página 239 - To hide the terror of her uncouth hew From mortall eyes, that should be sore agrized; For that her face did like a lion shew, That eye of wight could not indure to view...
Página 388 - Feeding upon their pleasures bounteouslie, That none gainsaid, nor none did him envie.
Página 170 - Such was the beauty of this goodly band, Whose sundry parts were here too long to tell ; But she that in the midst of them did stand Seem'd all the rest in beauty to excell...
Página 259 - Of Mutability, and well it way, Me seemes, that though she all unworthy were Of the heav'ns rule, yet, very sooth to say, In all things else she beares the greatest sway: Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle, And love of things so vaine to cast away; Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle, Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle.

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