AMORETTI,

OR

SONNETS.

BY EDM. SPENSER

G. W. SENIOR,*

TO THE AUTHOR.

DARKE is the day, when Phoebus face is shrouded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray:
But, when they see his glorious rays unclouded,
With steddy steps they keep the perfect way:
So, while this Muse in forraine land doth stay,
Invention weeps, and pens are cast aside;

The time, like night, depriv'd of chearfull day;
And few do write, but (ah!) too soon may slide
Then, hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate England's fame,
Daunting thereby our neighbours ancient pride,
That do, for Poesie, challenge chiefest name:
So we that live, and ages that succeed,
With great applause thy learned works shall read.

AH! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Piping to shepherds thy sweet roundelays;
Or whether singing, in some lofty vaine,
Heroicke deeds of past or present days;

"Perhaps George Whetstone, a poetaster and dramatic writer, in

the reign of Elizabeth." -TODD.

Or whether, in thy lovely Mistresse praise,

Thou list to exercise thy learned quill;

Thy Muse hath got such grace and power to please,
With rare invention, beautified by skill,

As who therein can ever ioy their fill!
O! therefore let that happy Muse proceed

To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill,

Where endlesse honour shall be made thy meed:
Because no malice of succeeding daies

Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.

G. W. JUNR.