God poems

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Bridal Song

© John Fletcher

CYNTHIA, to thy power and thee
We obey.
Joy to this great company!
And no day

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The Task: Book IV, The Winter Evening (excerpts)

© William Cowper

Hark! 'tis the twanging horn! O'er yonder bridge,
That with its wearisome but needful length
Bestrides the wintry flood, in which the moon
Sees her unwrinkled face reflected bright,

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Sonnet XXVIII

© Edmund Spenser

THe laurell leafe, which you this day doe weare,
guies me great hope of your relenting mynd:
for since it is the badg which I doe beare,
ye bearing it doe seeme to me inclind:

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An Hymn In Honour Of Beauty

© Edmund Spenser

AH whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me?
What wontless fury dost thou now inspire
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?
Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire,

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Poem 21

© Edmund Spenser

WHo is the same, which at my window peepes?
Or whose is that faire face, that shines so bright,
Is it not Cinthia, she that neuer sleepes,
But walkes about high heauen al the night?

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Poem 93

© Edmund Spenser

TO whom his mother closely smiling sayd,
twixt earnest and twixt game:
See thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made,
if thou regard the same.

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Sonnet XXII

© Edmund Spenser

THis holy season fit to fast and pray,
Men to deuotion ought to be inclynd:
therefore, I lykewise on so holy day,
for my sweet Saynt some seruice fit will find.

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Poem 23

© Edmund Spenser

And ye high heauens, the temple of the gods,
In which a thousand torches flaming bright
Doe burne, that to vs wretched earthly clods:
In dreadful darknesse lend desired light;

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Sonnet XXIIII

© Edmund Spenser

WHen I behold that beauties wonderment,
And rare perfection of each goodly part;
of natures skill the only complement,
I honor and admire the makers art.

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Sonnet XXXIX

© Edmund Spenser

SWeet smile, the daughter of the Queene of loue,
Expressing all thy mothers powrefull art:
with which she wonts to temper angry loue,
when all the gods he threats with thundring dart.

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Astrophel

© Edmund Spenser

Yet as they been, if any nycer wit
Shall hap to heare, or couet them to read:
Thinke he, that such are for such ones most fit,
Made not to please the liuing but the dead.
And if in him found pity euer place,
Let him be moou'd to pity such a case.

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Ruins of Rome, by Bellay

© Edmund Spenser

1 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;

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A Hymn In Honour Of Beauty

© Edmund Spenser

Ah whither, Love, wilt thou now carry me?
What wontless fury dost thou now inspire
Into my feeble breast, too full of thee?
Whilst seeking to aslake thy raging fire,

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A Ditty

© Edmund Spenser

In praise of Eliza, Queen of the Shepherds SEE where she sits upon the grassie greene,
(O seemely sight!)
Yclad in Scarlot, like a mayden Queene,
And ermines white:

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The Shepheardes Calender: April

© Edmund Spenser

APRILL: Ægloga QuartaTHENOT & HOBBINOLL
Tell me good Hobbinoll, what garres thee greete?
What? hath some Wolfe thy tender Lambes ytorne?
Or is thy Bagpype broke, that soundes so sweete?
Or art thou of thy loved lasse forlorne?

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The Faerie Queene, Book I, Canto IV (excerpts)

© Edmund Spenser

CANTO IIII
To sinfull house of Pride, Duessa
guides the faithfull knight,
Where brothers death to wreak Sansjoy
doth chalenge him to fight.

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Prosopopoia: or Mother Hubbard's Tale

© Edmund Spenser

By that he ended had his ghostly sermon,
The fox was well induc'd to be a parson,
And of the priest eftsoons gan to inquire,
How to a benefice he might aspire.

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Epithalamion

© Edmund Spenser

YE learned sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to me ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne

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The Faerie Queene: Book I, Canto I

© Edmund Spenser

THE FIRST BOOKE OF THE FAERIE QUEENE
Contayning
THE LEGENDE OF THE KNIGHT OF THE
RED CROSSE, OR OF HOLINESSEProemi

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Musketaquid

© Ralph Waldo Emerson

Because I was content with these poor fields,
Low open meads, slender and sluggish streams,
And found a home in haunts which others scorned,
The partial wood-gods overpaid my love,