Critics Of Religion

"For we by conquest, of our soveraine might, And by eternall doome of Fate's decree, Have wonne the Empire of the Heavens bright."

"Ere he ended his melodious song, An host of angels flew the clouds among, And rapt this swan from his attentive mates To make him one of their associates In heaven's fair choir."

"He threw the soul of harmony into our verse, and made it more warmly, tenderly, and magnificently descriptive than it ever was before, or, with a few exceptions, than it has ever been since. ... We shall nowhere find more airy and expansive images of visionary things, a sweeter tone of sentiment, or a finer flush in the colours of language, than in this Rubens of English poetry. ... Though his story grows desultory, the sweetness and grace of his manner still abide by him. He is like a speaker whose tones continue to be pleasing, though he may speak too long."

"I remember when I began to read, and to take some pleasure in it, there was wont to lie in my mother's parlour (I know not by what accident, for she herself never in her life read any book but of devotion), but there was wont to lie Spenser's works; this I happened to fall upon, and was infinitely delighted with the stories of the knights, and giants, and monsters, and brave houses, which I found everywhere there (though my understanding had little to do with all this); and by degrees with the tinkling of the rhyme and dance of the numbers, so that I think I had read him all over before I was twelve years old, and was thus made a poet."

"The biography of Spenser is to a great extent a series of assumptions, or of assertions, repeated by one writer after another, but resting originally upon little or no evidence."

"[T]hat matchlesse Poem, The Faery Queen, written by our English Virgil."

"For us Anishinaabe, Biskaabiiyang is a specific term that means “returning to the woods,” because we’re woodland peoples. For example, I grew up growing my “three sisters”—that is, corn, beans, and squash—along the edge of the forest, using what people now call sylvan culture or permaculture. It’s curious how this counters the perspective of classical authors like Dante in early modern Europe or, later, Edmund Spenser, an important Renaissance poet, who view the woods as this terrifying presence. Why is this decolonizing? Because through boarding schools and many other colonial experiences, that fear of the woods creeps in."

"I must acknowledge that Virgil in Latin, and Spenser in English, have been my masters."

"No man was ever born with a greater genius, or had more knowledge to support it."

"His versification is at once the most smooth and the most sounding in the language. It is a labyrinth of sweet sounds...that would cloy by their very sweetness, but that the ear is constantly relieved and enchanted by their continued variety of modulation. ... It is the perfection of melting harmony, dissolving the soul in pleasure or holding it captive in the chains of suspense."

"This poet contains great beauties, a sweet and harmonious versification, easy elocution, a fine imagination: Yet ... it soon becomes a kind of task-reading; and it requires some effort and resolution to carry us on to the end of his long performance. ...the affectations, and conceits, and fopperies of chivalry...appear ridiculous... The tediousness of continued allegory, and that too seldom striking or ingenious, has also contributed to render the Fairy Queen peculiarly tiresome; not to mention the too great frequency of its descriptions, and the languor of its stanza. Upon the whole, Spencer maintains his place in the shelves among our English classics: But he is seldom seen on the table."

"I think that if he had not been a great poet, he would have been a great painter."

"The poets' poet."

"Thee gentle Spenser fondly led, But me he mostly sent to bed."

"I have at last come to the end of the Faerie Queene: and though I say "at last", I almost wish he had lived to write six books more as he had hoped to do — so much have I enjoyed it."

"What he feels on one level, he feels on all. When the good and fair appear to him, the whole man responds; the satyrs gambol, the lances splinter, the shining ones rise up. There is a place for everything and everything is in its place. Nothing is repressed; nothing is insubordinate. To read him is to grow in mental health."

"Elizabeth's arse-kissing poet."

"Our sage and serious poet Spencer, whom I dare be known to think a better teacher than Scotus or Aquinas."

"Spenser was among his [Thomas Gray] favourite poets; and he told me he never sat down to compose poetry without reading Spenser for a considerable time previously."

"The Fairie Queene makes cinema out of the west's primary principle: to see is to know; to know is to control. The Spenserian eye cuts, wounds, rapes."

"The Faerie Queene is the most extended and extensive meditation on sex in the history of poetry. It charts the entire erotic spectrum, a great chain of being rising from matter to spirit, from the coarsest lust to chastity and romantic idealism. The poem’s themes of sex and politics are parallel: the psyche, like society, must be disciplined by good government. Spenser agrees with the classical and Christian philosophers on the primacy of reason over animal appetites. He looks forward to the Romantic poets, however, in the way that he shows the sex impulse as ultimately daemonic and barbaric, breeding witches and sorcerers of evil allure. Like the Odyssey, The Faerie Queene is a heroic epic in which the masculine must evade female traps or delays."

"It is easy to mark out the general course of our poetry. Chaucer, Spenser, Milton, and Dryden, are the great landmarks for it."

"Spenser, I think, may be reckoned the first of our heroic poets. He had a large spirit, a sharp judgment, and a genius for heroic poetry, perhaps above any that ever wrote since Virgil. But our misfortune is, he wanted a true idea, and lost himself by following an unfaithful guide. Though besides Homer and Virgil he had read Tasso, yet he rather suffered himself to be misled by Ariosto, with whom blindly rambling on marvels and adventures, he makes no conscience of probability; all is fanciful and chimerical, without any uniformity, or without any foundation in truth; his poem is perfect fairy land."

"The great master of English versification, incomparably the greatest master in our language."

"Sweet Spenser, moving through his clouded heaven With the moon's beauty and the moon's soft pace, I called him Brother, Englishman, and Friend!"

"No poet borrows so much from learned languages as Spencer."

"I trow that countenance cannot lie, Whose thoughts are legible in the eie."

"Death slue not him, but he made death his ladder to the skies."

"I hate the day, because it lendeth light To see all things, but not my love to see."

"So love is Lord of all the world by right."

"I was promised on a time To have reason for my rhyme; From that time unto this season, I received nor rhyme nor reason."

"Uncouthe, unkiste, sayde the olde famous poete Chaucer."

"So now they have made our English tongue, a gallimaufray or hodgepodge of al other speches."

"To be wise and eke to love, Is graunted scarce to God above."

"And whither rennes this bevie of ladies bright, Raunged in a rowe?"

"Bring hether the Pincke and purple Cullambine, With Gelliflowres: Bring Coronations, and Sops in wine, Worne of Paramoures. Strowe me the ground with Daffadowndillies, And Cowslips, and Kingcups, and loved Lillies: The pretie Pawnce, And the Chevisaunce, Shall match with the fayre flowre Delice."

"Is not thilke the mery moneth of May, When love lads masken in fresh aray?"

"To kerke the narre from God more farre, Has bene an old-sayd sawe; And he that strives to touche a starre Oft stombles at a strawe."

"What more felicitie can fall to creature Than to enjoy delight with libertie, And to be lord of all the workes of Nature, To raine in th' aire from earth to highest skie, To feed on flowres and weeds of glorious feature."

"All, that in this world is great or gay, Doth as a vapour vanish, and decay."

"For deeds do die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men do as themselves decay; But wise words, taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for aye; Nor may with storming showers be washed away; Nor bitter-breathing winds, with harmful blast, Nor age, nor envy, shall them ever waste."

"Of such deep learning little had he neede, Ne yet of Latine, ne of Greeke, that breede Doubts mongst Divines, and difference of texts, From whence arise diversitie of sects, And hatefull heresies."

"Full little knowest thou that hast not tride, What hell it is in suing long to bide: To loose good dayes, that might be better spent; To wast long nights in pensive discontent; To speed to-day, to be put back to-morrow; To feed on hope, to pine with feare and sorrow. . . . . . . . . . To fret thy soule with crosses and with cares; To eate thy heart through comfortlesse dispaires; To fawne, to crowche, to waite, to ride, to ronne, To spend, to give, to want, to be undonne. Unhappie wight, borne to desastrous end, That doth his life in so long tendance spend!"

"I learned have, not to despise, What ever thing seemes small in common eyes."

"See how the tyrannesse doth joy to see The huge massacres which her eyes do make."

"The rolling wheel, that runneth often round, The hardest steel in tract of time doth tear; And drizzling drops, that often do redound, The firmest flint doth in continuance wear: Yet cannot I, with many a dropping tear, And long entreaty, soften her hard heart, That she will once vouchsafe my plaint to hear, Or look with pity on my painful smart: But when I plead, she bids me play my part; And when I weep, she says, "Tears are but water"; And when I sigh, she says, "I know the art"; And when I wail, she turns herself to laughter; So do I weep and wail, and plead in vain, Whiles she as steel and flint doth still remain."

"The merry cuckow, messenger of spring His trompet shrill hath thrise already sounded."

"Fondnesse it were for any being free, To covet fetters, though they golden bee."

"Of this worlds theatre in which we stay, My love lyke the spectator ydly sits Beholding me that all the pageants play, Disguysing diversly my troubled wits. Sometimes I joy when glad occasion fits, And mask in myrth lyke to a comedy: Soone after when my joy to sorrow flits, I waile and make my woes a tragedy."

"What then can move her? if nor merth, nor mone, She is no woman, but a sencelesse stone."