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Goe, tell the court it glowes
And shines like rotten wood;
Goe, tell the church it showes
What's good, and doth no good;
If church and court reply,
Then give them both the lye.

Tell potentates they live
Acting by others actions;
Not lov'd unlesse they give,
Not strong but by their factions;
If potentates reply,

Give potentates the lye.

Tell men of high condition,
That rule affairs of state,
Their purpose is ambition,
Their practise onely hate;
And if they once reply,
Then give them all the lye.

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,
Spare not to give the lye.

Tell zeale, 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 lye.

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 each of them the lye.

Tell wit, how much it wrangles
In tickle points of nicenesse;

Tell wisedome, she entangles
Herselfe in over-wisenesse;
And if they do reply

Straight give them both the lye.

Tell physicke of her boldnesse;
Tell skill, it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldnesse;
Tell law, it is contention;
And as they yield reply,
So give them still the lye.

Tell fortune of her blindnesse;
Tell Nature of decay;

Tell friendship of unkindnesse;

Tell justice of delay;

And if they dare reply,

Then give them all the lye.

Tell arts, they have no soundnesse,

But vary by esteeming ;

Tell schooles they want profoundnesse;

And stand too much on seeming;

If arts and schooles reply,

Give arts and schooles the lye.

Tell faith, it's fled the citie;
Tell how the country erreth;
Tell, manhood shakes off pitie,
Tell, vertue least preferreth;
And, if they do reply,
Spare not to give the lye.

So, when thou hast, as I
Commanded thee, done blabbing,
Although to give the lye
Deserves no less than stabbing,
Yet stab at thee who will,
No stab the soule can kill.

EDMUND SPENSER, descended from the ancient family of the Spensers in Northamptonshire, was born in London, probably about the year 1553. He was sent, as a sizar, to Pembroke-hall, Cambridge, and matriculated in 1569. Here he wrote poetry, and won the friendship of the celebrated Gabriel Harvey, but was disappointed, perhaps fortunately, in his desire of university distinction. He retired into the north of England, and, falling in love, became the "baby of a girl" who rejected his addresses and his pastorals. From this life of indolence, of poverty, and hopelessness, his friend Harvey recalled him to London, and procured him the patronage of Sir Philip Sidney. The Laureatship followed, bestowed by Sir Philip's admiring queen. This however was a barren gift, made more barren by the disfavour of Burleigh. Spenser was seldom allowed to enjoy even his good fortune. But not the less was the fortune his, who could interdict the great but ungracious earl from the Muses for ever! "O let not those of whom the muse is scorn'd

Alive or dead, be by the Muse adorn'd"

The exertions of Spenser's noble and gentle patron, however, were unceasing, and shortly after this a life of activity was struck out for him. In 1580 he was sent to Ireland in the office of secretary to the new Lord Deputy, and discharged its duties with able and faithful integrity. Soon after his recall, the queen presented him with a grant of land in Ireland from the forfeited estate of Desmond. Plunged in grief from the death of his beloved Sir Philip Sidney, Spenser gladly took refuge in this new scene. Four years of happy tranquillity here passed away, bearing for the world the glorious fruit of the first three books of the Faery Queen. Spenser carried these to London in the year 1590, in company with Sir Walter Raleigh, who had visited him at Kilcolman. Here he was doomed again to encounter the frowns of Burleigh. On his return to Ireland he abjured his old love by marriage with a new one, a country lass of mean birth, as he tells us, whose name was Elizabeth. In an interval of six years which succeeded he paid several visits to England; wrote many poems, among them the fourth, fifth, and sixth books of the Fairy Queen; and published a very able and statesmanlike view of the condition of Ireland. A dreadful calamity now awaited him-the fatal corroboration of his opinions respecting that unhappy country. The Tyrone rebellion broke out, his estate was plundered, his house and one of his children burnt by the rebels, and he was driven into England with his wife and remaining children, a poor and wretched exile. He never recovered this misery. In 1599 he died at an obscure lodging in London, in extreme indigence and want of bread. The Earl of Essex had made an effort for him which came too late. It was the fate of the Poet, while feeling bitterly the ill intentions of his foes, seldom to realize the good intentions of his friends. But it is easy to repay suffering during life with honours after it, and Spenser had a great funeral in Westminster Abbey.

Edmund Spenser possessed the abstract faculty of poetry, in a higher degree than any other poet of England. He occupies in common with three other illustrious men, the first rank of poetical fame in his country; but in the truest sense of the term poetry, he stands before all, unapproachably alone. When we wish to be removed altogether from the actual world, to take up our residence in the exclusive poetical region, to be laid in the bosom of a more quiet and more lovely nature than that of earth, we must resort to the works of Spenser. Himself a man of action, his poetry is the expression of perfect luxuriousness and relaxation; of a fairy land of volup tuous sentiment and fancy, where the pathos, that is there, does not act with tears, and the passion and strength, that are there also, influence us through a medium of visionary sublimity, and by associations of preternatural power. The controlling presence of the poetry of Spenser is a love of beauty and a sense of pleasure. We have them equally in his description of a lonely solitude, or of a scene of more than Eastern magnificence; in his picture of a withered old man in his cave, or of the wanton beauties of an enchanted lake. Spenser's imagination is inexhaustible, and his command of language the most copious and various. And though his genius is, as we have said, steeped in pleasure, all it sends forth may rank in the very first order of refinement, and moral truth. If a fault could be urged, indeed, against his great poem, it would be perhaps that its moral design is even obtrusive.

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IN which amazement when the miscreaunt
Perceived him to waver weake and fraile,
Whiles trembling horror did his conscience daunt,
And hellish anguish did his soule assaile;
To drive him to despaire, and quite to quaile,

Hee shewd him painted in a table plaine

The damned ghosts, that doe in torments waile,
And thousand feends, that doe them endlesse paine
With fire and brimstone, which for ever shall remaine.

The sight whereof so throughly him dismaid,
That nought but death before his eies he saw,
And ever burning wrath before him laid,
By righteous sentence of th' Almighties law.
Then gan the villein him to overcraw,

And brought unto him swords, ropes, poison, fire,
And all that might him to perdition draw;

And bad him choose, what death he would desire:
For death was dew to him, that had provokt Gods ire.

But, whenas none of them he saw him take,
He to him raught a dagger sharpe and keene,
And gave it him in hand: his hand did quake
And tremble like a leafe of aspin greene,

And troubled blood through his pale face was seene
To come and goe, with tidings from the heart,
As it a ronning messenger had beene.

At last, resolv'd to work his finall smart,

He lifted up his hand, that backe againe did start.

Which whenas Una saw, through every vaine
The crudled cold ran to her well of life,
As in a swowne: but, soone reliv'd againe,
Out of his hand she snatcht the cursed knife,
And threw it to the ground, enraged rife,
And to him said; "Fie, fie, faint hearted knight,
What meanest thou by this reprochfull strife?
Is this the battaile, which thou vauntst to fight
With that fire-mouthed dragon, horrible and bright?

"Come; come away, fraile, feeble, fleshly wight,
Ne let vaine words bewitch thy many hart,
Ne divelish thoughts dismay thy constant spright:
In heavenly mercies hast thou not a part?
Why shouldst thou then despeire, that chosen art?
Where justice growes, there grows eke greater grace,
The which doth quench the brond of hellish smart,
And that accurst hand-writing doth deface:
Arise, sir Knight; arise, and leave this cursed place."

Thence passing forth, they shortly doe arryve
Whereas the Bowre of Blisse was situate;
A place pickt out by choyce of best alyve,

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