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Amoretti: Sonnet 84 Post by :tcloyes Category :Poems Author :Edmund Spenser Date :March 2011 Read :2281

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Amoretti: Sonnet 84

The world, that cannot deeme of worthy things,
When I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter:
So does the cuckow, when the mavis* sings,
Begin his witlesse note apace to clatter.
But they, that skill not of so heavenly matter,
All that they know not, envy or admyre;
Rather then envy, let them wonder at her,
But not to deeme of her desert aspyre.
Deepe in the closet of my parts entyre**,
Her worth is written with a golden quill,
That me with heavenly fury doth inspire,
And my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill:
Which when as Fame in her shril trump shall thunder,
Let the world chuse to envy or to wonder.


(* _Mavis_, song-thrush.)
(** _Entyre,_ inward.)


(The end)
Edmund Spenser's poem: Amoretti: Sonnet 84

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Venemous tongue, tipt with vile adders sting,Of that self kynd with which the Furies fell,Their snaky heads doe combe, from which a springOf poysoned words and spightfull speeches well,Let all the plagues and horrid paines of hellUpon thee fall for thine accursed hyre,That with false forged lyes, which thou didst tell.In my true Love did stirre up coles of yre:The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre,And, catching hold on thine own wicked bed,Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspireIn my sweet peace such breaches to have bred! Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward, Due to
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Let not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyreBreake out, that may her sacred peace molest;Ne one light glance of sensuall desyreAttempt to work her gentle mindes unrest:But pure affections bred in spotlesse brest,And modest thoughts breathd from well-tempred spirits,Goe visit her in her chaste bowre of rest,Accompanyde with angelick delightes.There fill your selfe with those most ioyous sights,The which my selfe could never yet attayne:But speake no word to her of these sad plights,Which her too constant stiffnesse doth constrayn. Onely behold her rare perfection, And blesse your fortunes fayre election.(The end)Edmund Spenser's poem: Amoretti: Sonnet 83
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