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Amoretti: Sonnet 4 Post by :bembaman Category :Poems Author :Edmund Spenser Date :March 2011 Read :1314

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Amoretti: Sonnet 4

New yeare, forth looking out of Ianus gate,
Doth seeme to promise hope of new delight,
And, bidding th'old adieu, his passed date
Bids all old thoughts to die in dumpish* spright;
And calling forth out of sad Winters night
Fresh Love, that long hath slept in cheerlesse bower,
Wils him awake, and soone about him dight
His wanton wings and darts of deadly power.
For lusty Spring now in his timely howre
Is ready to come forth, him to receive;
And warns the Earth with divers colord flowre
To decke hir selfe, and her faire mantle weave.
Then you, faire flowre! in whom fresh youth doth raine,
Prepare your selfe new love to entertaine.

(The end)
Edmund Spenser's poem: Amoretti: Sonnet 4

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Amoretti: Sonnet 5 Amoretti: Sonnet 5

Amoretti: Sonnet 5
Rudely thou wrongest my deare harts desire,In finding fault with her too portly pride:The thing which I doo most in her admire,Is of the world unworthy most envide.For in those lofty lookes is close implideScorn of base things, and sdeigne of foul dishonor;Thretning rash eies which gaze on her so wide,That loosely they ne dare to looke upon her.Such pride is praise, such portlinesse is honor,That boldned innocence beares in hir eies,And her faire countenaunce, like a goodly banner,Spreds in defiaunce of all enemies. Was never in this world ought worthy tride*, Without some spark of such self-pleasing pride.(*

Amoretti: Sonnet 3 Amoretti: Sonnet 3

Amoretti: Sonnet 3
The soverayne beauty which I doo admyre,Witnesse the world how worthy to be prayzed!The light wherof hath kindled heavenly fyreIn my fraile spirit, by her from basenesse raysed;That being now with her huge brightnesse dazed,Base thing I can no more endure to view:But, looking still on her, I stand amazedAt wondrous sight of so celestiall hew.So when my toung would speak her praises dew,It stopped is with thoughts astonishment;And when my pen would write her titles true,It ravisht is with fancies wonderment: Yet in my hart I then both speak and write The wonder that my wit cannot endite.(The