Fayre, when that cloud of pryde, which oft doth dark
Her goodly light, with smiles she drives 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.

SONNET LXXXII.

Ior of my life! full oft for loving you
I blesse my lot, that was so lucky plac'd:
But then the more your owne mishap I rew,
That are so much by so meane love embased.
For, had the equall hevens so much you graced
In this as in the rest, ye mote invent
Some hevenly wit, whose verse could have enchased
Your glorious name in golden moniment.
But since ye deignd so goodly to relent
To me your thrall, in whom is little worth;
That little, that I am, shall all be spent
In setting your immortal prayses forth :
Whose lofty argument, uplifting me,
Shall lift you up unto an high degree.

SONNET LXXXIII.

LET not one sparke of filthy lustfull fyre
Breake out, that may her sacred peace molest ;
Ne one light glance of sensuall desyre
Attempt to work her gentle mindes unrest:
But pure affections bred in spotlesse brest,

And modest thoughts breathd from well tempred spirits,

Goe visit her, in her chaste bowre of rest,
Accompanyde with ángelick delightes.

There fill your selfe with those most ioyous sights,
The which my selfe could never yet attayne:
But speake no word to her of these sad plights,
Which her too constant stiffnesse doth constrayn.
Onely behold her rare perfection,

And blesse your fortunes fayre election.

SONNET LXXXIV.

THE world that cannot deeme of worthy things,
When I doe praise her, say I doe but flatter:
So does the cuckow, when the mavis sings,
Begin his witlesse note apace to clatter.
But they that skill not of so heavenly matter,
All that they know not, envy or admyre;
Rather then envy, let them wonder at her,
But not to deeme of her desert aspyre.
Deepe, in the closet of my parts entyre,
Her worth is written with a golden quill,
That me with heavenly fury doth inspire,
And my glad mouth with her sweet prayses fill.
Which when as Fame in her shril trump shall
thunder,

Let the world chuse to envy or to wonder.

SONNET LXXXV.

VENEMOUS tongue, tipt with vile adders sting, Of that self kynd with which the Furies fell

Their snaky heads doe combe, from which a spring
Of poysoned words and spightfull speeches well;
Let all the plagues, and horrid paines, of hell
Upon thee fall for thine accursed hyre;
That with false forged lyes, which thou didst tell,
In my true Love did stirre up coles of yre;
The sparkes whereof let kindle thine own fyre,
And, catching hold on thine own wicked hed,
Consume thee quite, that didst with guile conspire
In my sweet peace such breaches to have bred!
Shame be thy meed, and mischiefe thy reward,
Due to thy selfe, that it for me prepard !

SONNET LXXXVI.

SINCE I did leave the presence of my Love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne;
And many nights, that slowly seemd to move
Theyr sad protract from evening untill morn.
For, when as day the heaven doth adorne,
I wish that night the noyous day would end:
And, when as night hath us of light forlorne,
I wish that day would shortly reascend.
Thus I the time with expectation spend,
And faine my griefe with chaunges to beguile,
That further seemes his terme still to extend,
And maketh every minute seem a myle.

So sorrowe still doth seem too long to last;
But ioyous houres do fly away too fast.

SONNET LXXXVII.

SINCE I have lackt the comfort of that light,
The which was wont to lead my thoughts astray;
I wander as in darknesse of the night,
Affrayd of every dangers least dismay.
Ne ought I see, though in the clearest day,
When others gaze upon theyr shadowes vayne,
But th' only image of that heavenly ray,
Whereof some glance doth in mine eie remayne.
Of which beholding the idea playne,
Through contemplation of my purest part,
With light thereof I doe my self sustayne,
And thereon feed my love-affamisht hart.

But, with such brightnesse whylest I fill my mind,
I starve my body, and mine eyes doe blynd.

SONNET LXXXVIII.

LYKE as the culver, on the bared bough,
Sits mourning for the absence of her mate;
And, in her songs, sends many a wishful vow
For his returne that seemes to linger late:
So I alone, now left disconsolate,

Mourne to my selfe the absence of my Love;
And, wandring here and there all desolate,
Seek with my playnts to match that mournful dove:
Ne ioy of ought, that under heaven doth hove,
Can comfort me, but her owne ioyous sight:
Whose sweet aspect both God and man can move,
In her unspotted pleasauns to delight.

Dark is my day, whyles her fayre light I mis,
And dead my life that wants such lively blis.

* I.

TO THE RIGHT WORSHIPFULL, MY SINGULAR GOOD FREND, M. GABRIELL HARVEY, DOCTOR OF THE LAWES

HARVEY, the happy above happiest men

I read; that, sitting like a Looker-on

Of this worldes stage, doest note with critique pen
The sharpe dislikes of each condition :
And, as one carelesse of suspition,

Ne fawnest for the favour of the great;
Ne fearest foolish reprehension

Of faulty men, which daunger to thee threat:
But freely doest, of what thee list, entreat,
Like a great lord of peerclesse liberty;
Lifting the Good up to high Honours seat,
And the Evill damning evermore to dy:

For Life, and Death, is in thy doomeful writing!
So thy renowme lives ever by endighting.
Your devoted friend, during life,
EDMUND SPENCER.

Dublin, this xviij. of July, 1586.

* III.

"UPON THE HISTORIE OF GEORGE CASTRIOT, ALIAS SCANDERBEG, KING OF THE EPIROTS, TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH.

WHEREFORE doth vaine Antiquitie so vaunt
Her ancient monuments of mightie peeres,
And old heroes, which their world did daunt [eares?
With their great deedes and fild their childrens
Who, rapt with wonder of their famous praise,
Admire their statues, their colossoes great:
Their rich triumphall arcks which they did raise,
Their huge pyramids, which do heaven threat.
Lo! one, whom Later Age hath brought to light,
Matchable to the greatest of those great;
Great both by name, and great in power and might,
And meriting a meere triumphant seate.

The scourge of Turkes, and plague of infidels,
Thy acts, O Scanderbeg, this volume tels.
ED. SPENSER.

* II.

WHOSO wil seeke, by right deserts, t' attaine
Unto the type of true Nobility;
And not by painted shewes, and titles vaine,
Derived farre from famous Auncestrie:
Behold them both in their right visnomy
Here truly pourtray'd, as they ought to be,
And striving both for termes of dignitie,
To be advanced highest in degree.
And, when thou doost with equall insight see
The ods twixt both, of both the deem aright,
And chuse the better of them both to thee;
But thanks to him, that it deserves, behight;

To Nenna first, that first this worke created,
And next to Jones, that truely it translated.
ED. SPENSER.

1. From "Foure Letters, and certaine Sonnets, especially touching Robert Greene, and other parties by him abused, &c. 1592." TODD.

* II. Prefixed to "Nennio, or A Treatise of Nobility, &c. Written in Italian by that famous Doctor and worthy Knight Sir John Baptista Nenna of Bari. Done into English by William Iones, Gent. 1595." TODD.

* IV.

THE antique Babel, Empresse of the East,
Upreard her buildinges to the threatned skie:
And second Babell, Tyrant of the West,
Her ayry towers upraised much more high.
But, with the weight of their own surquedry,
They both are fallen, that all the earth did feare,
And buried now in their own ashes ly;
Yet shewing, by their heapes, how great they were.
But in their place doth now a third appeare,
Fayre Venice, flower of the last worlds delight;
And next to them in beauty draweth neare,
But farre exceedes in policie of right.

Yet not so fayre her buildinges to behold
As Lewkenors stile that hath her beautie told.
EDM. SPENCER.

POEM I.

IN youth, before I waxed old,
The blynd boy, Venus baby,

For want of cunning made me bold,
In bitter hyve to grope for honny:
But, when he saw me stung and cry,
He tooke his wings and away did fly.

POEM II.

As Diane hunted on a day,

She chaunst to come where Cupid lay,
His quiver by his head :

One of his shafts she stole away,
And one of hers did close convay
Into the others stead:

With that Love wounded my Loves hart, But Diane beasts with Cupids dart.

POEM III.

I SAW, in secret to my Dame
How little Cupid humbly came,
And said to her; " All hayle, my mother!"
But, when he saw me laugh, for shame
His face with bashfull blood did flame,
Not knowing Venus from the other.
"Then, never blush, Cupid, quoth I,
For many have err'd in this beauty."

And yet thou suffrest neyther gods in sky,
Nor men in earth, to rest:

But, when thou art disposed cruelly,
Theyr sleepe thou doost molest.
Then eyther change thy cruelty,
Or give lyke leave unto the fly."
Nathelesse, the cruell boy, not so content,
Would needs the fly pursue;

And in his hand, with heedlesse hardiment,
Him caught for to subdue.

But, when on it he hasty hand did lay,
The Bee him stung therefore :

"Now out alas, he cryde, and welaway,

I wounded am full sore:

The fly, that I so much did scorne,

Hath hurt me with his little horne."

Unto his mother straight he weeping came,
And of his griefe complayned:

Who could not chuse but laugh at his fond game,
Though sad to see him pained.

15

20

25

30

"Think now (quoth she) my son, how great the

35

40

45

POEM IV.

UPON a day, as Love lay sweetly slumbring

All in his mothers lap;

A gentle Bee, with his loud trumpet murm'ring, About him flew by hap.

Whereof when he was wakened with the noyse, And saw the beast so small;

And then she bath'd him in a dainty well,

Who would not oft be stung as this,

To be so bath'd in Venus blis?

50

The wanton boy was shortly wel recured Of that his malady:

5

But he, soone after, fresh again enured

His former cruelty.

And since that time he wounded hath my selfe With his sharpe dart of Love:

55

"Whats this (quoth he) that gives so great a voyce, That wakens men withall?"

In angry wize he flies about,

And threatens all with corage stout.

To whom his mother closely smiling sayd, "Twixt earnest and 'twixt game :

"See! thou thy selfe likewise art lyttle made, If thou regard the same.

And now forgets the cruell carelesse elfe His mothers heast to prove.

YE learned Sisters, which have oftentimes
Beene to the ayding, others to adorne,
Whom ye thought worthy of your gracefull rymes,
That even the greatest did not greatly scorne
To heare theyr names sung in your simple layes, 5
But ioyed in theyr praise;

And when ye list your own mishaps to mourne,
Which death, or love, or fortunes wreck did rayse,
Your string could soone to sadder tenor turne,
And teach the woods and waters to lament
Your dolefull dreriment:

Now lay those sorrowfull complaints aside;
And, having all your heads with girlands crownd,
Helpe me mine owne Loves prayses to resound;
Ne let the same of any be envide:
So Orpheus did for his owne bride !
So I unto my selfe alone will sing;

The woods shall to me answer, and my eccho ring.

EARLY, before the worlds light-giving lampe
His golden beame upon the hils doth spred,
Having disperst the nights unchearfull dampe,
Doe ye awake; and, with fresh lustyhed,
Go to the bowre of my beloved Love,
My truest turtle dove;

Bid her awake; for Hymen is awake,
And long since ready forth his maske to move,
With his bright tead that flames with many a flake,
And many a bachelor to waite on him,
In theyr fresh garments trim.

Bid her awake therefore, and soone her dight,
For loe! the wished day is come at last,
That shall, for all the paynes and sorrowes past,
Pay to her usury of long delight:
And, whylest she doth her dight,
Doe ye to her of ioy and solace sing,

10

15

20

25

Which done, doe at her chamber dore awayt,
For she will waken strayt;

The whiles do ye this Song unto her sing,
The woods shall to you answer, and your eccho
ring.

YE Nymphes of Mulla, which with carefull heed
The silver scaly trouts do tend full well,
And greedy pikes which use therein to feed ;
(Those trouts and pikes all others doe excell;)
And ye likewise, which keepe the rushy lake,
Where none doo fishes take;

Bynd up the locks the which hang scatterd light,
And in his waters, which your mirror make,
Behold your faces as the christall bright,
That when you come whereas my Love doth lie,
No blemish she may spie.

60

And eke, ye lightfoot mayds, which keepe the dore,
That on the hoary mountayne use to towre;
And the wylde wolves, which seeke them to devoure,
With your steele darts doe chace from coming

neer;

Be also present heere,

70

To helpe to decke her, and to help to sing, That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

30

35

That all the woods may answer, and your eccho ring.

BRING with you all the Nymphes that you can

The merry Larke hir mattins sings aloft ;
The Thrush replyes; the Mavis descant playes;
The Ouzell shrills; the Ruddock warbles soft;
So goodly all agree, with sweet consent,
To this dayes meriment.

80