Edmund Spenser

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

And thus of all my harvest-hope I have
Nought reaped but a weedye crop of care.

And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
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And on his brest a bloodie crosse he bore,
The deare remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweete sake that glorious badge he wore.

Yet was he but a squire of low degree.

Yet was he but a squire of low degree.

It is the mind that maketh good of ill, that maketh wretch or happy,
rich or poor.

It is the mind that maketh good of ill, that maketh wretch or happy,
rich or poor.

Give time and permit a short delay, impetuosity ruins everything.

Give time and permit a short delay, impetuosity ruins everything.