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With thoughtful care; as she that, all in vain, And next in order sad, Old-Age we found:
Would wear and waste continually in pain :

His beard all hoar, his eyes hollow and blind;
Her eyes unstedfast, rolling here and there,

With drooping cheer still poring on the ground,
Whiri'd on each place, as place that vengeance To rest, when that the sisters had untwin'd

As on the place where nature him assign'd
So was her mind continually in fear, [brought,
Tost and tormented with the tedious thought

His vital thread, and ended with their knife
Of those detested crimes which she had wrought ;

The fleeting course of fast declining life : With dreadful cheer, and looks thrown to the sky,

There heard we him with broke and hollow plaint
Wishing for death, and yet she could not die.

Rue with himself his end approaching fast,
Next, saw we Dread, all trembling how he shook, And all for nought his wretched mind torment
With foot uncertain, profer'd here and there; With sweet remembrance of his pleasures past.
Benumb'd with speech ; and, with a ghastly look, And fresh delights of lusty youth forewaste;
Searched every place, all pale and dead for fear, Recounting which, how would he sob and shriek,
His cap born up with staring of his hair ;

And to be young again of Juve beseek!
'Stoin'd and amazed at his own shade for dread,
And fearing greater dangers than was need.

But, an the cruel fates so fixed be

That time forepast cannot return again, And, next, within the entry of this lake,

This one request of Jove yet prayed he,Sat fell Revenge, gnashing her teeth for ire;

That, in such wither'd plight, and wretched pain,
Devising means how she may vengeance take; As eld, accompany'd with her loathsome train,
Nerer in rest, 'till she have her desire;

Had brought on him, all were it woe and grief
But frets within so far forth with the fire
Of wreaking flames, that now determines she

He might a while yet linger forth his life,
To die by death, or 'veng'd by death to be.

And not so soon descend into the pit; When fell Revenge, with bloody foul pretence,

Where Death, when he the mortal corpse hath slain, Had show'd herself, as next in order set,

With reckless hand in grave doth cover it: With trembling limbs we softly parted thence,

Thereafter never to enjoy again 'Till in our eyes another sight we met;

The gladsome light, but, in the ground ylain, When fro my heart a sigh forthwith I fet,

In depth of darkness waste and wear to nought,

As he had ne'er into the world been brought :
Ruing, alas, upon the woeful plight
Of Misery, that next appear'd in sight:

But who had seen him sobbing how he stood
His face was lean, and some-deal pin’d away,

Unto himself, and how he would bemoan And eke his hands consumed to the bone ;

His youth forepast—as though it wrought him good But, what his body was, I cannot say,

To talk of youth, all were his youth foregoneFor on his carcase raiment had he none,

He would have mused, and marvel'd much whereon Save clouts and patches pieced one by one;

This wretched Age should life desire so fain, With staff in hand, and scrip on shoulders cast,

And knows full well life doth but length his pain : His chief defence against the winter's blast:

Crook-back'd he was, tocti-shaken, and blear-eyed ; His food, for most, was wild fruits of the tree, Went on three feet, and sometime crept on four; Unless sometime some crumbs fell to his share, With old lame bones, thit rattled by his side; Which in his wallet long, God wot, kept he,

His scalp all pil'd, and he with eld forelore,
As on the which full daint'ly would he fare;

His wither'd fist still knocking at death's door;
His drink, the running stream, his cup, the bare Fumbling, and driveling, as he draws his breath;
Of his palm closed ; his bed, the hard cold ground: For brief, the shape and messenger of Death.
To this poor life was Misery ybound.

And fast by him pale Malady was placed :
Whose wretched state when we had well beheld, Sore sick in bed, her colour all foregone;
With tender ruth on him, and on his feers,

Bereft of stomach, savour, and of taste,
In thoughtful cares forth then our pace we held; Ne could she brook no meat but broths alone;
And, by and by, another shape appears

Her breath corrupt; her keepers every one
Of greedy Care, still brushing up the briers ;

Abhorring her; her sickness past recure, His knuckles knob’d, his flesh deep dinted in, Detesting physic, and all physic's cure. With tawed bands, and hard ytanned skin:

But, oh, the doleful sight that then we see ! The morrow grey no sooner hath begun

We turn'd our look, and on the other side To spread his light e'en peeping in our eyes,

A grisly shape of Famine mought we see : But he is up, and to his work yrun ;

With greedy looks, and gaping mouth, that cried But let the night's black misty mantles rise,

And roar'd for meat, as she should there have died; And with foul dark never so much disguise

Her body thin and bare as any bone, The fair bright day, yet ceaseth he no while,

Whereto was left nought but the case alone, But hath his candles to prolong his toil.

And that, alas, was gnawen every where, By him lay heavy Sleep, the cousin of Death,

All full of holes; that I ne mought refrain Flat on the ground, and still as any stone,

From tears, to see how she her arms could tear,
A very corpse, save yielding forth a breath ;

And with her teeth gnash on the bones in vain,
Small keep took he, whom fortune frowned on,
Or whom she lifted up into the throne

When, all for nought, she fain would so sustain

Her starven corpse, that rather seem'd a shade
Of high renown, but, as a living death,

Than any substance of a creature made:
So dead alive, of life he drew the breath:
The body's rest, the quiet of the heart,

Great was her force, whom stone-wall could not stay
The travel's case, the still night's feer was he, Her tearing nails snatching at all she saw;
And of our life in earth the better part;

With gaping jaws, that by no means ymay
Riever of sight, and yet in whom we see

Be satisfy'd from hunger of her maw, Things oft that (tyde) and oft that never be; But eats herself as she that hath no law; Without respect, esteem[ing] equally

Gnawing, alas, her carcase all in vain, King Croesus' pomp and Irus' poverty.

Where you may count each sinew, bone, and vein.



On her while we thus firmly fix'd our eyes,

latter, on her accession to the throne, rewarded him That bled for ruth of such a dreary sight,

with many favours. He must have been a man of Lo, suddenly she shriek'd in so huge wise

taste and refined feelings, as the following specimen As made hell gates to shiver with the might; of his poetry will suffice to show :Wherewith, a dart we saw, how it did light Right on her breast, and, therewithal, pale Death

Sonnet made on Isabella Markham, when I first Enthirling it, to rieve her of her breath:

thought her fair, as she stood at the princess's window, And, by and by, a dumb dead corpse we saw,

in goodly attire, and talked to divers in the court-yard.

1564. Heavy, and cold, the shape of Death aright, That daunts all earthly creatures to his law,

Whence comes my love! Oh heart, disclose; Against whose force in vain it is to fight;

It was from cheeks that shamed the rose, Ne peers, ne princes, nor no mortal wight,

From lips that spoil the ruby's praise, No towns, ne realms, cities, ne strongest tower,

From eyes that mock the diamond's blaze : But all, perforce, must yield unto his power :

Whence comes my woe ? as freely own ;

Ah me! 'twas from a heart like stone.
His dart, anon, out of the corpse he took,
And in his hand (a dreadful sight to see)

The blushing cheek speaks modest mind,
With great triumph eftsoons the same he shook,

The lips befitting words most kind, That most of all my fears affrayed me;

The eye does tempt to love's desire, His body dight with nought but bones, pardy ;

And seems to say 'tis Cupid's fire ; The naked shape of man there saw I plain,

Yet all so fair but speak my moan, All save the flesh, the sinew, and the vein.

Sith nought doth say the heart of stone. Lastly, stood War, in glittering arms yclad,

Why thus, my love, so kind bespeak With visage grim, stern look, and blackly hued :

Sweet eye, sweet lip, sweet blushing cheekIn his right hand a naked sword he had,

Yet not a heart to save my pain ; That to the hilts was all with blood imbrued;

Oh Venus, take thy gifts again!
And in his left (that kings and kingdoms rued) Make not so fair to cause our moan,
Fainine and fire he held, and therewithal

Or make a heart that's like our own.
He razed towns and threw down towers and all :
Cities he sack’d, and realms (that whilom flower'd

In honour, glory, and rule, above the rest)
He overwhelm'd, and all their fame devour'd,

SIR PHILIP SIDNEY (1554-1586) takes his rank in Consum'd, destroy'd, wasted, and never ceas'd, English literary history rather as a prose writer than 'Till he their wealth, their name, and all oppress'd : as a poet. His poetry, indeed, has long been laid His face forehew'd with wounds; and by his side

aside on account of the cold and affected style in There hung his targe, with gashes deep and wide.

which he wrote. It has been justly remarked, that, if he had looked into his own noble heart, and

written directly from that, instead of from his some(Henry Duke of Buckingham in the Infernal Regions.] would have been excellent. Yet in some pieces he

what too metaphysico-philosophical head, his poetry [The description of the Duke of Buckingham-the Bucking has fortunately failed in extinguishing the natural ham, it must be recollected, of Richard III.-has been much sentiment which inspired him. The following are admired, as an impersonation of extreme wretchedness.]

admired specimens of his sonnets :
Then first came Henry Duke of Buckingham,
His cloak of black all piled, and quite forlorn,
Wringing his hands, and Fortune oft doth blame,

[Sonnets of Sir Philip Sidney.] Which of a duke had made him now her scorn ; Because I oft in dark abstracted guise With ghastly looks, as one in manner lorn,

Seem most alone in greatest company,
Oft spread his arms, stretched hands he joins as fast, With dearth of words, or answers quite awry
With rueful cheer, and vapoured eyes upcast. To them that would make speech of speech arise,
His cloak he rent, his manly breast he beat ;

They deem, and of their doom the rumour flies,
His hair all torn, about the place it lain :

That poison foul of bubbling Pride doth lie My heart so molt to see his grief so great,

So in my swelling breast, that only I As feelingly, methought, it dropped away :

Fawn on myself, and others do despise.

Yet Pride, I think, doth not my soul possess,
His eyes they whirled about withouten stay :
With stormy sighs the place did so complain,

Which looks too oft in his unflattering glass :
As if his heart at each had burst in twain.

But one worse fault Ambition I confess,

That makes me oft my best friends overpass,
Thrice he began to tell his doleful tale,

Unseen, unheard, while thought to highest place
And thrice the sighs did swallow up his voice; Bends all his powers, even unto Stella's grace.
At each of which he shrieked so withal,
As though the heavens ryved with the noise ;

With how sad steps, O Moon ! thou climb’st the skies, Till at the last, recovering of his voice,

How silently, and with how wan a face ! Supping the tears that all his breast berained,

What may it be, that even in heavenly place
On cruel Fortune weeping thus he plained.

That busy Archer his sharp arrows tries?
Sure, if that long with love acquainted eyes

Can judge of love, thou feel'st a lover's case;

I read it in thy looks, thy languish'd grace

To me that feel the like thy state descries. Some pleasing amatory verses (exhibiting a re- Then, even of fellowship, O Moon, tell me, markable polish for the time in which they were Is constant love deem'd there but want of wit ! written) by JOHN HARRINGTON (1534—1582) have Are beauties there as proud as here they be! been published in the Nugæ Antiqua. This poet Do they above love to be lov’d, and yet was imprisoned in the Tower by Queen Mary for Those lovers scorn whom that love doth possess ! holding correspondence with Elizabeth, and the Do they call virtue there ungratefulness


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Come, Sleep, 0 Sleep, the certain knot of peace,

The baiting place of wit, the balm of woe,

The poor man's wealth, the prisoner's release,
The indifferent judge between the high and low. SIR WALTER RALEIGH, to whose merits as a prose
With shield of proof shield me from out the prease? writer justice is done in the sequel, deserves to be
Of those fierce darts, Despair at me doth throw; ranked amongst the minor poets of Elizabeth's reign.
O make in me those civil wars to cease:

TIMOTHY KENDAL is only known for having pub-
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so.

lished, in 1577, a volume entitled Hours of Epigrams. Take thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed ; NICHOLAS BRETON (1555-1624) wrote some pastoral A chamber, deaf to noise, and blind to light; poems, and a volume called the Works of a Young A rosy garland, and a weary head.

Wit. HENRY CONSTABLE was a popular writer of And if these things, as being thine by right,

sonnets, though strangely conceited and unnatural Move not thy heavy grace, thou shalt in me

in his style. In most of the works of these inferior Livelier than elsewhere Stella's image see.

poets, happy thoughts and imagery may be found, Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance

mixed up with affectations, forced analogies, and Guided so well, that I obtaind the prize,

conceits. It is worthy of remark, that this was the Both by the judgment of the English eyes,

age when collections of fugitive and miscellaneous And of some sent from that sweet enemy France ;

poems first became common. Several volumes of Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance;

this kind, published in the reign of Elizabeth, conTownfolks my strength; a daintier judge applies

tain poetry of high merit, without any author's
His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise ;
Some lucky wits impute it but to chance ;

The Country's Recreations.
Others, because of both sides I do take
My blood from them who did excel in this,

[From a poem by Raleigh, bearing the above title, the following Think nature me a man of arms did make.

verses are extracted.] How far they shot awry! the true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heavenly face

Heart-tearing cares and quiv'ring fears,

Anxious sighs, untimely tears, Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

Fly, fly to courts, In martial sports I had my cunning tried,

Fly to fond worldling's sports ; And yet to break more staves did me address ;

Where strained sardonic smiles are glozing still, While with the people's shouts, I must confess,

And Grief is forced to laugh against her will ;

Where mirth's but mummery, Youth, luck, and praise, even fill'd my veins with pride.

And sorrows only real be. When Cupid, having me (his slave) descried

Fly from our country pastimes, fly, In Mars's livery, prancing in the press,

Sad troop of human misery ! * What now, Sir Fool,' said he, I would no less.

Come, serene looks,
Look here, I say.' I look'd, and Stella spied,

Clear as the crystal brooks,
Who hard by made a window send forth light. Or the pure azur'd heaven that smiles to see
My heart then quaked, then dazzled were inine eyes ; | The rich attendance of our poverty.
One hand forgot to rule, th’ other to fight;

Peace and a secure mind,
Nor trumpet's sound I heard, nor friendly cries;

Which all men seek, we only find.
My foe came on, and beat the air for me,
Till that her blush taught me my shame to see.

Abused mortals, did you know

Where joy, heart's ease, and comforts grow, Of all the kings that ever here did reign,

You'd scorn proud towers, Edward named Fourth as first in praise I name;

And seek them in these bowers ;
Not for his fair outside, nor well-lined brain,

Where winds perhaps our woods may sometimes shake,
Although less gifts imp feathers oft on Fame: But blustering care could never tempest make,
Nor that he could, young-wisc, wise-valiant, frame

Nor murmurs e'er come nigh us,
His sire's revenge, join'd with a kingdom's gain,

Saving of fountains that glide by us.
And, gain'd by Mars, could yet mad Mars so tame,
That Balance weigh'd what Sword did late obtain: Blest silent groves ! O may ye be
Nor that he made the Flower-de-luce so fraid,

For ever mirth's best nursery !
Though strongly hedg’d of bloody Lion's paws,

May pure contents
That witty Lewis to him a tribute paid.

For ever pitch their tents
Nor this, por that, nor any such small cause Upon these downs, these meads, these rocks, these
But only for this worthy knight durst prove

mountains, To lose his crown, rather than fail his love.

And peace still slumber by these purling fountains,

Which we may every year. O happy Thames, that didst my Stella bear!

Find when we come a-fishing here.
I saw thee with full many a smiling line
l'pon thy cheerful face joy's livery wear,

[Farewell to Town, by Breton.]
While those fair planets on thy streams did shine.
The boat for joy could not to dance forbear;
While wanton winds, with beauties so divine

Thou gallant court, to thee farewell ?
Ravish'd, staid not, till in her golden hair

For froward fortune me denies They did themselves (O sweetest prison) twine:

Now longer near to thee to dwell. And fain those Eol's youth there would their stay I must go live, I wot not where, Have made ; but, forced by Nature still to fly,

Nor how to live when I come there. First did with puffing kiss those locks display.

And next, adieu you gallant dames, She, so dishevellid, blush'd. From vindow I,

The chief of noble youth's delight! With sight thereof, cried out, . O fair disgrace;

Untoward Fortune now so frames, Let Honour's self to thee grant highest place.'

That I am banish'd from your sight.

And, in your stead, against my will,
| Press, throng.
I must go live with country Jill.




CHRISTOPHER MARLOW, so highly eminent as a dramatic writer, would probably have been overlooked in the department of miscellaneous poetry, but for his beautiful piece, rendered familiar by its being transferred into Walton's 'Angler'-The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. JOSHUA SYLVESTER, who died in 1618, at the age of 55, and who was the author of a large volume of poems of very unequal merit, claims notice as the now generally received author of an impressive piece, long ascribed to Raleigh— The Souls Errand. Another fugitive poem of great beauty, but in a different style, and which has often been attributed to Shakspeare, is now given to RICHARD BARNFIELD, author of several poetical volumes published between 1594 and 1598. These three remarkable poems are here subjoined :

Now next, my gallant youths, farewell;

My lads that oft have cheered my heart ! My grief of mind no tongue can tell,

To think that I must from you part.
I now must leave you all, alas,
And live with some old lobcock ass !
And now farewell thou gallant lute,

With instruments of music's sounds!
Recorder, citern, harp, and flute,

And heavenly descants on sweet grounds. I now must leave you all, indeed, And make some music on a reed ! And now, you stately stamping steeds,

And gallant geldings fair, adieu !
My heavy heart for sorrow bleeds,

To think that I must part with you :
And on a strawen pannel sit,
And ride some country carting tit!
And now farewell both spear and shield,

Caliver pistol, arquebuss,
See, see, what sighs my heart doth yield

To think that I must leave you thus;
And lay aside my rapier blade,
And take in hand a ditching spade !
And you farewell, all gallant games,

Primero, and Imperial,
Wherewith I us’d, with courtly dames,

To pass away the time withal:
I now must learn some country plays
For ale and cakes on holidays!
And now farewell each dainty dish,

With sundry sorts of sugar'd wine !
Farewell, I say, fine flesh and fish,

To please this dainty mouth of mine! I now, alas, must leave all these, And make good cheer with bread and cheese ! And now, all orders due, farewell !

My table laid when it was noon ;
My heavy heart it irks to tell

My dainty dinners all are done:
With leeks and onions, whig and whey,
I must content me as I may.
And farewell all gay garments now,

With jewels rich, of rare device!
Like Robin Hood, I wot not how,

I must go range in woodman's wise ;
Clad in a coat of green, or grey,
And glad to get it if I may.
What shall I say, but bid adieu

To every dream of sweet delight,
In place where pleasure never grew,

In dungeon deep of foul despite, I must, ah me! wretch as I may, Go sing the song of welaway!

The Passionate Shepherd to his Love. Come live with me, and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That vallies, groves, and hills and fields, Woods or steepy mountains yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks, By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses, And a thousand fragrant posies ; A cap of flowers and a kirtle, Embroider'd all with leaves of myrtle : A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull ; Fair lined slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold : A belt of straw and ivy buds, With coral clasps and amber studs ; And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me, and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing, For thy delight, each May-morning : If these delights thy mind may move Then live with me, and be my love.

[Sonnet by Constable.]

[From his · Diana :' 1594.) To live in hell, and heaven to behold, To welcome life, and die a living death, To sweat with heat, and yet be freezing cold, To grasp at stars, and lie the earth beneath, To tread a maze that never shall have end, To burn in sighs, and starve in daily tears, To climb a hill, and never to descend, Giants to kill, and quake at childish fears, To pine for food, and watch th' Hesperian tree, To thirst for drink, and nectar still to draw, To live accurs’d, whom men hold blest to be, And weep those wrongs, which never creature saw ; If this be love, if love in these be founded, My heart is love, for these in it are grounded.

[The Nymph's Reply to the Passionate Shepherd

By Raleigh.]
If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee, and be thy love.
Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold ;
And Philomel becometh dumb,
The rest complain of cares to come.
The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields ;
A honey tongue-a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.
Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies,
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.
Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs ;
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last, and love still breed,
Had joys no date, nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Tell faith it's fled the city,

Tell how the country erreth, Tell, manhood shakes off pity, Tell, virtue least preferreth.

And if they do reply,

Spare not to give the lie. So when thou hast, as I

Commanded thee, done blabbing:
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing ;

Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soul can kill.


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The Soul's Errand, Go, soul, the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand ! Fear not to touch the best, The truth shall be thy warrant;

Go, since I needs must die,

And give the world the lie. Go, tell the court it glows,

And shines like rotten wood; Go, tell the church it shows What's good, and doth no good:

If church and court reply,

Then give them both the lie. Tell potentates, they live

Acting by others actions, Not lov'd unless they give, Not strong but by their factions.

If potentates reply,

Give potentates the lie. Tell men of high condition

That rule affairs of state, Their purpose is ambition, Their practice only hate.

And if they once reply,

Then give them all the lie, Tell them that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending, Who in their greatest cost, Seek nothing but commending.

And if they make reply,

Then give them all the lie. Tell zeal it lacks devotion,

Tell love it is but lust, Tell time it is but motion, Tell flesh it is but dust;

And wish them not reply,

For thou must give the lie. Tell age it daily wasteth,

Tell honour how it alters, Tell beauty how she blasteth, Tell favour how she falters.

And as they shall reply,

Give every one the lie. Tell wit how much it wrangles

In tickle points of niceness : Tell wisdom she entangles Herself in over-wiseness.

And when they do reply,

Straight give them both the lie. Tell physic of her boldness,

Teil skill it is pretension, Tell charity of coldness, Tell law it is contention.

And as they do reply,

So give them still the lie.
Tell fortune of her blindness,

Tell nature of decay,
Tell friendship of unkindness,
Tell justice of delay.

And if they will reply,

Then give them all the lie. Tell arts they have no soundness,

But vary by esteeming,
Tell schools they want profoundness,
And stand too much on seeming.

If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools the lie.

[Address to the Nightingale.] As it fell upon a day, In the merry month of May, Sitting in a pleasant shade Which a grove of myrtles made; Beasts did leap, and birds did sing, Trees did grow, and plants did spring ; Everything did banish moan, Save the nightingale alone. She, poor bird, as all forlorn, Lean'd her breast up-till a thorn; And there sung the dolefull'st ditty, That to hear it was great pity. Fie, fie, fie, now would she cry; Teru, teru, by and by; That, to hear her so complain, Scarce I could from tears réfrain ; For her griefs, so lively shown, Made me think upon mine own. Ah! (thought I) thou mourn’st in vain ; None takes pity on thy pain : Senseless trees, they cannot hear thee, Ruthless bears they will not cheer thee : King Pandion he is dead; All thy friends are lapp'd in lead; All thy fellow-birds do sing, Careless of thy sorrowing ! Whilst as fickle Fortune smil'd, Thou and I were both beguil'd. Every one that flatters ее Is no friend in misery. Words are easy, like the wind; Faithful friends are hard to find. Every man will be thy friend Whilst thou hast wherewith to spend : But, if store of crowns be scant, No man will supply thy want. If that one be prodigal, Bountiful they will him call; And with such-like flattering, • Pity but he were a king.' If he be addict to vice, Quickly him they will entice; But if fortune once do frown, Then farewell his great renown: They that fawn'd on him before Use his company no more. Hle that is thy friend indeed, lle will help thee in thy need ; If thou sorrow, he will weep, If thou wake he cannot sleep: Thus, of every grief in heart Ile with thee doth bear a part. These are certain signs to know Faithful friend from flattering foe.


These writers bring us to EDMUND SPENSER, whose genius is one of the peculiar glories of the romantic reign of Elizabeth.

It is easy,' says

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