Piers. Thou need'st the truth but plainly tell Which much I doubt thou canst not well, Thou art so oft a liar. Thenot. If in my song no more I show Than heaven and earth and sea do know, Then truly I have spoken. Piers. Sufficeth not no more to name, But being no less, the like, the same Thenot. Then say, she is so good, so fair, Piers. Compare may think where likeness holds, I thought to find you lying. Thenot. Soon as Astrea shews her face, Straight every ill avoids the place, And every good aboundeth, Pieres. Nay, long before her face doth show, How loud this lie resoundeth, Thenot. Astrea is our chiefest joy, Our chiefest guard against annoy, Our chiefest wealth, our treasure, Piers. Where chiefest are, there others be, Thenot. Astrea may be justly said- In seasons freest springing, Piers. That spring endures but shortest time, Thou liest in stead of singing. Therot. Astrea rightly term I may A manly palm, a maiden bay, Piers. Palm oft is crooked, bay is low, She still upright, still high doth grow, Thenot. Then, Piers, of friendship tell me why, And strive in vain to raise her. Piers. Words from conceit do only rise, But* silence nought can praise her. † A pure sample this of that outrageous flattery, close bordering upon the brink of irony and ridicule, in which Elizabeth was weak and vain enough to find delight,— strange inconsistency of human nature. A very scarce published work of the Countess, bears the title of "The Tragedy of Antonie ;done into English by the Countess of Pembroke." Dated at Ramsbury, 26 Nov. 1590. Printed by P. S. for W. Ponsonby, 1595, 16mo. From this production Mr. Park has selected the following extract as a specimen : Chorus. Lament we our mishaps, Drown we with tears our woe; For lamentable haps, Lamented, easy grow, And much less torment bring, Than when they first did spring. i. e. Except. ↑ Royal and Noble Authors, Vol. 2, p. 195 We want that woeful song Wherewith wood-musick's queen We want that moanful sound Though Halcyons do still, Bewailing Ceyx lot, The seas with plainings fill, Which his dead limbs have got, Not ever other grave Than tomb of waves to have. And though the bird in death, That most Meander loves, So sweetly sings his breath, As almost softs his heart, Yet all the plaints of those, Cannot content our woes, EDMUND SPENSER. BORN 1553.-DIED 1599. The connection of Edmund Spenser, the sweetest of English Poets, with the County of Kent, has been already noticed. One canto of the " Faery Queen," is supposed, by some of the commentators, to have been written when he was a visitor at Penshurst, then the residence of Sir Henry Sidney. Sir Philip Sidney, to use his own words,— "Who first my muse did lift out of the floor, was his first, his best, and almost his only patron.By him he was introduced to the powerful Earl of Leicester, who procured his appointment in Ireland, and the grant of land which he obtained in consequence. At Sidney's recommendation the " Faery Queen" was undertaken. To the same accomplished man he dedicated "The Shepherd's Calendar," one of his earliest works; and he had the misfortune to devote another to the memory of his untimely fate. From the mass of "lucky words" with which the "gentle muse" favoured the "destined urn" of Sidney, we shall select these of Spenser, "And bid fair peace be to his sable shroud." Astrophel: a Pastoral Elegy upon the Death of the most noble and valorous knight, Sir Philip Sidney: Dedicated to the most beautiful and virtuous Lady, the Countess of Essex. A gentle shepherd, born in Arcady, Of gentlest race that ever shepherd bore, About the grassy banks of Hæmony Did keep his sheep, his little stock and store; Young Astrophel! the pride of shepherd's praise; In all that seemly shepherds might behove; For from the time that first the nymph his mother In comely shape like her that did him breed, Which daily more and more he did augment Not Spight itself, that all good things doth spill; His sports were fair, his joyance innocent, Sweet without sour, and honey without gall; |