Edmund Spenser

(1552 - 13 January 1599 / London / England)

Whilst It Is Prime - Poem by Edmund Spenser

FRESH Spring, the herald of loves mighty king,
In whose cote-armour richly are displayd
All sorts of flowers, the which on earth do spring,
In goodly colours gloriously arrayd--
Goe to my love, where she is carelesse layd,
Yet in her winters bowre not well awake;
Tell her the joyous time wil not be staid,
Unlesse she doe him by the forelock take;
Bid her therefore her selfe soone ready make,
To wayt on Love amongst his lovely crew;
Where every one, that misseth then her make,
Shall be by him amearst with penance dew.
   Make hast, therefore, sweet love, whilest it is prime;
   For none can call againe the passed time.


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Read poems about / on: spring, time, love, flower



Poem Submitted: Saturday, January 4, 2003



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