Lo I the man,° whose Muse whilome did maske, As time her taught, in lowly Shepheards weeds, Am now enforst a far unfitter taske, For trumpets sterne to chaunge mine Oaten reeds, And sing of Knights and Ladies° gentle deeds; Whose prayses having slept in silence long, Me, all too meane, the sacred Muse areeds To…
Tag: Edmund Spenser
Edmund Spenser
My Love Is Like To Ice My love is like to ice, and I to fire: How comes it then that this her cold so great Is not dissolved through my so hot desire, But harder grows the more I her entreat? Or how comes it that my exceeding heat Is not allayed by…