Sonnet XXIIII
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.
But when I feele the bitter balefull smart,
which her fayre eyes vnwares doe worke in mee:
that death out of theyr shiny beames doe dart,
I thinke that I a new Pandora see.
Whom all the Gods in councell did agree,
into this sinfull world from heauen to send:
that she to wicked men a scourge should bee,
for all their faults with which they did offend,
But since ye are my scourge I will intreat,
that for my faults ye will me gently beat.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXXXI
Fayre is my loue, when her fayre golden heares,
with the loose wynd ye wauing chance to marke:
fayre when the rose in her red cheekes appeares,
or in her eyes the fyre of loue does sparke.
Fayre when her brest lyke a rich laden barke,
with pretious merchandize she forth doth lay:
fayre whe[n] that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark
her goodly light with smiles she driues away.
But fayrest she, when so she doth display,
the gate with pearles and rubyes richly dight:
throgh which her words so wise do make their way
to beare the message of her gentle spright,
The rest be works of natures wonderment,
but this the worke of harts astonishment.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet XLV
LEaue lady, in your glasse of christall clene,
Your goodly selfe for euermore to vew:
and in my selfe, my inward selfe I meane,
most liuely lyke behold your semblant trew.
Within my hart, though hardly it can shew,
thing so diuine to vew of earthly eye:
the fayre Idea of your celestiall hew,
and euery part remaines immortally:
And were it not that through your cruelty,
with sorrow dimmed and deformd it were:
the goodly ymage of your visnomy,
clearer then christall would therein appere.
But if your selfe in me ye playne will see,
remoue the cause by which your fayre beames darkned be.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Poem 6
My loue is now awake out of her dreame,
and her fayre eyes like stars that dimmed were
With darksome cloud, now shew theyr goodly beams
More bright then Hesperus his head doth rere.
Come now ye damzels, daughters of delight,
Helpe quickly her to dight,
But first come ye fayre houres which were begot
In loues sweet paradice, of Day and Night,
Which doe the seasons of the yeare allot,
And al that euer in this world is fayre
Doe make and still repayre.
And ye three handmayds of the Cyprian Queene,
The which doe still adorne her beauties pride,
Helpe to addorne my beautifullest bride
And as ye her array, still throw betweene
Some graces to be seene,
And as ye vse to Venus, to her sing,
The whiles the woods shal answer & your eccho ring
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet XXXI
Ah why hath nature to so hard a hart,
giuen so goodly giftes of beauties grace?
whose pryde depraues each other better part,
and all those pretious ornaments deface.
Sith to all other beastes of bloody race,
a dreadfull countenaunce she giuen hath:
that with theyr terrour al the rest may chace,
and warne to shun the daunger of theyr wrath.
But my proud one doth worke the greater scath,
through sweet allurement of her louely hew:
that she the better may in bloody bath,
of such poore thralls her cruell hands embrew.
But did she know how ill these two accord,
such cruelty she would haue soone abhord.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Scourge
A scourge causes death to open enemies,
How hard are those who whip and punish severely?
A threat cascades into the death of a man of blasphemies,
His throat hurts from exertions and everything nearly.
The misery of life is clearly made by those in-charge,
A scourge politely masters us in full daylight;
Sincere reflections are received and then enlarge
To accumulate and enter, and also create a bite.
You must not act when the paradigm fixes,
Think over this standard example so named,
An arrangement of sense and butter mixes
To complete the sauce so flamed and famed.
I agree with some secrets, in the conversation,
They echo in the scourge once delighted in,
Fixing and mixing like top secrets with abbreviation,
Echoing and finding new tours herein.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Sonnet LXIX
THe famous warriors of the anticke world,
Vsed Trophees to erect in stately wize:
in which they would the records haue enrold,
of theyr great deeds and valarous emprize.
What trophee then shall I most fit deuize,
in which I may record the memory
of my loues conquest, peerelesse beauties prise,
adorn'd with honour, loue, and chastity.
Euen this verse vowd to eternity,
shall be thereof immortall moniment:
and tell her prayse to all posterity,
that may admire such worlds rare wonderment.
The happy purchase of my glorious spoile,
gotten at last with labour and long toyle.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Sonnet LXXXIII
MY hungry eyes, through greedy couetize,
Still to behold the obiect of theyr payne:
with no contentment can themselues suffize,
but hauing pine, and hauing not complayne
For lacking it, they cannot lyfe sustayne,
and seeing it, they gaze on it the more:
in theyr amazement lyke Marcissus vayne
whose eyes him staru'd: so plenty makes me pore.
Yet are myne eyes so filled with the store
of that fayre sight, that nothing else they brooke:
but loath the things which they did like before,
and can no more endure on them to looke.
All this worlds glory seemeth vayne to me,
and all theyr shewes but shadowes sauing she.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Perfection can be achieved by no one, because perfection is achieved from faults- yet faults tear away the perfection in you.
Do not think of your faults, still less of other's faults; look for what is good and strong, and try to imitate it. Your faults will drop off, like dead leaves, when their time comes.
quote by John Ruskin
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Our Eyes
Have you seen
How quickly
Our eyes close
When they
See our own
Faults?
And how quickly
They pop out open
When they guzzle in
Others' faults?
Our eyes open
Wide and shut.
They are very
Choosy about
Our faults ;)
Being partial
Towards us,
But unsparing,
Towards others.
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Faults And All
(Carl Perkins)
Not so very long from now
She'll be known all over town
Cause she waits by her phone from in the car
She says the limit is the sky
And tonight she's flyin' high
But I'll hang around and take her faults and all
O' Yes she once was mine
Now she's changed and she's that kind
With a crowd she has her self a ball
But she's not that kind of girl
She's just hidin' from the world
But I'll hang around and take her faults and all
She's about as low as a girl can go
She ain't got far to fall
But when she hits the ground
I'm gonna be around
'Cause I want her most of all
And when all's been said and done
I'm gonna be the one
Who'll hang around and take her faults and all
Yeah I'll hang around and take her faults and all
song performed by by George Strait
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Love-Tokens
Afflictions do not come alone,
A voice attends the rod;
By both he to his saints is known,
A Father and a God!
Let not my children slight the stroke
I for chastisement send;
Nor faint beneath my kind rebuke,
For still I am their friend.
The wicked I perhaps may leave
Awhile, and not reprove;
But all the children I receive
I scourge, because I love.
If therefore you were left without
This needful discipline;
You might, with cause, admit a doubt,
If you, indeed, were mine.
Shall earthly parents then expect
Their children to submit?
And wilt not you, when I correct,
Be humbled at my feet?
To please themselves they oft chastise,
And put their sons to pain;
But you are precious in my eyes,
And shall not smart in vain.
I see your hearts, at present, filled
With grief, and deep distress;
But soon these bitter seeds shall yield
The fruits of righteousness.
Break through the clouds, dear Lord, and shine!
Let us perceive thee nigh!
And to each mourning child of thine
These gracious words apply.
poem by John Newton
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Geue Place Ye Louers, Here Before
Geue place ye louers, here before
That spent your bostes and bragges in vaine:
My Ladies beawtie passeth more
The best of yours, I dare well sayen,
Than doth the sonne, the candle light:
Or brightest day, the darkest night.
And thereto hath a trothe as iust,
As had Penelope the fayre.
For what she saith, ye may it trust,
As it by writing sealed were.
And vertues hath she many moe,
Than I with pen haue skill to showe.
I coulde rehearse, if that I wolde,
The whole effect of natures plaint,
When she had lost the perfit mold,
The like to whom she could not paint:
With wringyng handes howe she dyd cry,
And what she said, I know it, I.
I knowe, she swore with ragyng mynd:
Her kingdom onely set apart,
There was no losse, by lawe of kind,
That could haue gone so nere her hart.
And this was chiefly all her payne:
She coulde not make the lyke agayne.
Sith nature thus gaue her the prayse,
To be the chiefest worke she wrought:
In faith, me thinke, some better waies
On your behalfe might well be sought,
Then to compare (as ye haue done)
To matche the candle with the sonne.
poem by Henry Howard
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Think of your own faults the first part of the night when you are awake, and of the faults of others the latter part of the night when you are asleep.
Think of your own faults the first part of the night when you are awake, and the faults of others the latter part of the night when you are asleep.
SOnnet XLVI
WHen my abodes prefixed time is spent,
My cruell fayre streight bids me wend my way:
but then fro[m] heauen most hideous stormes are sent
as willing me against her will to stay.
Whom then shall I or heauen or her obay,
the heauens know best what is the best for me:
but as she will, whose will my life doth sway,
my lower heauen, so it perforce must bee.
But ye high heuens, that all this sorowe see,
sith all your tempests cannot hold me backe:
aswage your stormes, or else both you and she,
will both together me too sorely wrack.
Enough it is for one man to sustaine,
the stormes, which she alone on me doth raine.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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You will surely die!
Opportunity what is that?
Is it bad or good?
Is a relationship with another
Person an opportunity to grow or to die...
As in I wish I were dead.
A woman is indeed a rare, rare opportunity
And if you ever get the chance to meet such
An opportunity...
And mistreat her, you will surely die.
A woman is the cradle of life...
She is a pandora box...
She is also a fox.
A woman is awake up smile
A mother to a child
A doctor or lawyer when she need be...
She was created for the world and me.
So an opportunity to be in the company of woman is rare.
God created such perfection there...emotional perfection.
Woman is an opportunity of good will...
Still.
poem by whisperkwane Lamb
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I'm Not An Angel Nor An Evil
I'm not an angel
Nor an evil
I'm who i'm
just little bit different
From the people around
Just Because I can't put on masks
And change them with every character and situation
Every while and while
Does that make me bad!
How they make me admire
when every while and while
They wear on and off
Different face
and face
They just make me smile.
I can't change colores
I can't wear masks.
I can't act happy
When i'm sad
I Can't laugh when someone is sad
Then I'll feel so bad
I'm not perfect
But I try to do my best
Sometimes a nice word
Can give me the world
A smile of a child
Makes me fly
A sad glance can make my heart cry
I'm just a human being
I laugh
I cry
I try
I shout
I feel
I fear
That's the way it is
Even with my faults
Still I can feel proud
I judge myself and sometimes even make fun.
But never ever want to be like those
Who act angel
Then they make million faults
Yet they never feel shy to judge others
How they make me admire!
poem by Sossi Khachadourian
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Sonnet XIII
IN that proud port, which her so goodly graceth,
whiles her faire face she reares vp to the skie:
and to the ground her eie lids low embaseth,
most goodly temperature ye may descry,
Myld humblesse mixt with awfull maiesty,
for looking on the earth whence she was borne:
her minde remembreth her mortalitie,
what so is fayrest shall to earth returne.
But that same lofty countenance seemes to scorne
base thing, & thinke how she to heauen may clime:
treading downe earth as lothsome and forlorne,
that hinders heauenly thoughts with drossy slime.
Yet lowly still vouchsafe to looke on me,
such lowlinesse shall make you lofty be.
poem by Edmund Spenser
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Upon the Silent Woman
Hear, you bad writers, and though you not see,
I will inform you where you happy be:
Provide the most malicious thoughts you can,
And bend them all against some private man,
To bring him, not his vices, on the stage;
Your envy shall be clad in some poor rage,
And your expressing of him shall be such,
That he himself shall think he hath no touch.
Where he that strongly writes, although he mean
To scourge but vices in a laboured scene,
Yet private faults shall be so well express'd
As men do get 'em, that each private breast,
That finds these errors in itself, shall say,
'He meant me, not my vices, in the play.'
poem by Francis Beaumont
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