I OY to see how, in your drawen work,
Your selfe unto the bee ye doe compare;
And me unto the spyder, that doth lurke
In close awayt, to catch her unaware:

Right so your selfe were caught in cunning snare
Of a deare foe, and thralled to his love;
In whose streight bands ye now captived are
So firmely, that ye never may remove.
But as your worke is woven all about
With woodbynd flowers and fragrant eglantine;
So sweet your prison you in time shall prove,
With many deare delights bedecked fyne.

And all thensforth eternall peace shall see
Betweene the spyder and the gentle bee.

LXXII.

OFT, when my spirit doth spred her bolder winges,
In mind to mount up to the purest sky;
It down is weighd with thought of earthly things,
And clogd with burden of mortality;
Where, when that soverayne beauty it doth spy,
Resembling heavens glory in her light,
Drawn with sweet pleasures bayt, it back doth fly,
And unto heaven forgets her former flight.
There my fraile fancy, fed with full delight,
Doth bathe in blisse, and mantleth most at ease;
Ne thinks of other heaven, but how it might
Her harts desire with most contentment please.
Hart need not wish none other happinesse,
But here on earth to have such hevens blisse.

BEING my self captyved here in care,

My hart, (whom none with servile bands can tye,
But the fayre tresses of your golden hayre,)
Breaking his prison, forth to you doth fly.
Like as a byrd, that in ones hand doth spy
Desired food, to it doth make his flight:
Even so my hart, that wont on your fayre eye
To feed his fill, flyes backe unto your sight.
Doe you him take, and in your bosome bright
Gently encage, that he may be your thrall:
Perhaps he there may learne, with rare delight,
To sing your name and prayses over all:

That it hereafter may you not repent,
Him lodging in your bosome to have lent.

LXXIV.

MOST happy letters! fram'd by skilfull trade,
With which that happy name was first desynd,
The which three times thrise happy hath me made,
With guifts of body, fortune, and of mind.
The first my being to me gave by kind,
From mother's womb deriv'd by dew descent:
The second is my sovereigne queene most kind,
That honour and large richesse to me lent:

The thiru, my love, my lifes last ornament,
By whom my spirit out of dust was raysed:
To speake her prayse and glory excellent,
Of all alive most worthy to be praysed.
Ye three Elizabeths! for ever live,
That three such graces did unto me give.

LXXV.

ONE day I wrote her name upon the strand;
But came the waves, and washed it away:
Agayne, I wrote it with a second hand;"
But came the tyde, and made my paynes his pray.
Vayne man, sayd she, that doest in vaine assay
A mortall thing so to immortalize;
For I my selve shall lyke to this decay,
And eke my name bee wyped out lykewize,
Not so, quod I; let baser things devize
To dy in dust, but you shall live by fame:
My verse your vertues rare shall éternize,
And in the hevens wryte your glorious name.
Where, when as death shall all the world
subdew,

Our love shall live, and later life renew

LXXVI.

FAYRE bosome! fraught with vertues richest tresure,
The neast of love, the lodging of delight,
The bowre of blisse, the paradice of pleasure,
The sacred harbour of that hevenly spright;
How was I ravisht with your lovely sight,
And my frayle thoughts too rashly led astray!
Whiles diving deepe through amorous insight,
On the sweet spoyle of beautie they did pray,
And twixt her paps, (like early fruit in May,
Whose harvest seemd to hasten now apace,)
They loosely did theyr wanton winges display,
And there to rest themselves did boldly place.
Sweet thoughts! I envy your so happy rest,
Which oft I wisht, yet never was so blest.

LXXVII.

Was it a dreame, or did I see it playne;
A goodly table of pure yvory,
All spred with juncats, fit to entertayne
The greatest prince with pompous roialty:
Mongst which, there in a siiver dish did ly
Two golden apples of unvalewd price;
Far passing those which Hercules came by,
Or those which Atalanta did entice;
Exceeding sweet, yet voyd of sinfull vice;
That many sought, yet none could ever taste;
Sweet fruit of pleasure, brought from Paradice
By Love himselfe, and in his garden plaste.

Her brest that table was, so richly spredd ;
My thoughts the guests, which would thereon
have fedd.

LXXVIII.

LACKYNG my love, I go from place to place,
Lyke a young fawne, that late hath lost the hynd;
And seeke each where, where last I sawe her
face,

Whose ymage yet I carry fresh in mynd.

I seeke the fields with her late footing synd;

I seeke her bowre with her late presence deckt;
Yet nor in field nor bowre I can her fynd;
Yet field and bowre are full of her aspect:

But, when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
They ydly back return to me agayne:
And, when I hope to see theyr trew obiect,
I fynd my self but fed with fancies vayne.

Cease then, myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see ; And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.

LXXIX.

MEN call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye daily such doe see:
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me :
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be.

Shall turne to nought and lose that glorious hew;
But onely that is permanent and free

From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is trew beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;
Deriv'd from that fayre spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed :

He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made;
All other fayre, lyke flowres, untymely fade.

LXXX.

AFTER So long a race as I have run
Through faery land, which those six books compile,
Give leave to rest me being half fordonne,
And gather to myselfe new breath awhile.
Then, as a steed refreshed after toyle,
Out of my prison I will break anew;
And stoutly will that second work assoyle,
With strong endevour and attention dew.

Till then give leave to me, in pleasant mew

To sport my muse, and sing my loves sweet praise; The contemplation of whose heavenly hew,

My spirit to an higher pitch will rayse,

But let her prayses yet be low and meane,
Fit for the handmayd of the Faery Queene.

LXXXI.

FAYRE is my love, when her fayre golden haires
With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke;
Fayre, when the rose in her red cheekes appeares ;
Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke.
Fayre, when her brest, lyke a rich laden baike,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay;
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.

LXXXII.

Iox of my life! full oft for loving you
1 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.

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 angelick 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.

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 shail thunder,

Let the world chuse to envy or to wonder.

LXXXV.

VENFMOUS tongue, tipt with vile adders sting,
Of that self kvnd with which the furies fell
Ther 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'

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.

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 idæa 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.

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 peerelesse 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.
Dublin, this xviij. of July, 1586.

Your devoted friend, during life,
EDMUND SPENCER.

II.

Prefixed to "Neunio, or A Treatise of Nobility," &c.
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.

En. SPENSER.

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
With their great deedes, and fild their childrens eares?
Who, rapt with wonder of their famous praise,
Admire their statues, their colossoes great ·
Their rich triumphall arckes 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.

Prefixed to "

IV.

The Commonwealth and Government of
Venice," &c.

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 style that hath her beautie told.
EDM. SPENCER.

But, when myne eyes I thereunto direct,
They ydly back return to me agayne:
And, when I hope to see theyr trew obiect,
I fynd my self but fed with fancies vayne.

Cease then, myne eyes, to seeke her selfe to see; And let my thoughts behold her selfe in mee.

LXXIX.

MEN call you fayre, and you doe credit it,
For that your selfe ye daily such doe see:
But the trew fayre, that is the gentle wit,
And vertuous mind, is much more praysd of me :
For all the rest, how ever fayre it be.

Shall turne to nought and lose that glorious hew;
But onely that is permanent and free

From frayle corruption, that doth flesh ensew.
That is trew beautie: that doth argue you
To be divine, and born of heavenly seed;
Deriv'd from that fayre spirit, from whom all true
And perfect beauty did at first proceed :

He only fayre, and what he fayre hath made;
All other fayre, lyke flowres, untymely fade.

LXXX.

AFTER So long a race as I have run
Through faery land, which those six books compile,
Give leave to rest me being half fordonne,
And gather to myselfe new breath awhile.
Then, as a steed refreshed after toyle,
Out of my prison I will break anew;
And stoutly will that second work assoyle,
With strong endevour and attention dew.
Till then give leave to me, in pleasant mew

To sport my muse, and sing my loves sweet praise;
The contemplation of whose heavenly hew,

My spirit to an higher pitch will rayse,

But let her prayses yet be low and meane,
Fit for the handmayd of the Faery Queene.

LXXXI.

FAYRE is my love, when her fayre golden haires
With the loose wynd ye waving chance to marke;
Fayre, when the rose in her red cheekes appeares ;
Or in her eyes the fyre of love does sparke.
Fayre, when her brest, lyke a rich laden baike,
With pretious merchandize she forth doth lay;
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.

LXXXII.

Iox of my life! full oft for loving you
1 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.

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 angelick 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.

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 shail

thunder,

Let the world chuse to envy or to wonder.

LXXXV.

VENEMOUS tongue, tipt with vile adders sting,
Of that self kvnd with which the furies fell
Ther 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'

LXXXVI.

SINCE I did leave the presence of my love,
Many long weary dayes I have outworne;
And many nights, that slowly seenid 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.

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 idæa 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.

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

1 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 peerelesse 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.
Dublin, this xviij. of July, 1586.

Your devoted friend, during life,
EDMUND SPENCER.

II.

Prefixed to " Neunio, or A Treatise of Nobility," &c.
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.

En. SPENSER.

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 herō93, which their world did daunt
With their great deedes, and fild their childrens eares?
Who, rapt with wonder of their famous praise,
Admire their statues, their colossoes great.
Their rich triumphall arckes 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.

IV.

Prefixed to" The Commonwealth and Governmen: of
Venice," &c.

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 style that hath her beautie told.
EDM. SPENCER.