Thence I behold the miserie of men,

Which want the bliss that wisedom would them breed,

And like brute beasts doo lie in loathsome den
Of ghostly darknes, and of gastlie dreed:
For whom I mourne, and for my selfe complaine,
And for my Sisters eake whom they disdaine.-

531

With that shee wept and waild so pityouslie,
As if her eyes had beene two springing wells;
And all the rest, her sorrow to supplie,

535

Did throw forth shriekes and cries and dreery yells.

So ended shee: and then the next in rew

Began her mournfull plaint, as doth ensew.

POLYHYMNIA.

540

A DOLEFULL case desires a dolefull song,
Without vaine art or curious complements;
And squallid Fortune, into basenes flong,
Doth scorne the pride of wonted ornaments.
Then fittest are these ragged rimes for mee,
To tell my sorrowes that exceeding bee.

545

For the sweet numbers and melodious measures,
With which I wont the winged words to tie,
And make a tunefull Diapase of pleasures,
Now being let to runne at libertie

550

By those which have no skill to rule them right,
Have now quite lost their naturall delight.

Heapes of huge words uphoorded hideously,
With horrid sound though having little sence,

They thinke to be chiefe praise of Poëtry;
And, thereby wanting due intelligence,
Have mard the face of goodly Poësie,
And made a monster of their fantasie.

Whilom1 in ages past none might professe
But Princes and high Priests that secret skill;
The sacred lawes therein they wont expresse,
And with deepe Oracles their verses fill:
Then was shee held in soveraigne dignitie,
And made the noursling of Nobilitie.

555

560

But now nor Prince nor Priest doth her maintayne,
But suffer her prophaned for to bee

566

Of the base vulgar, that with hands uncleane

Dares to pollute her hidden mysterie;

And treadeth under foote hir holie things,

Which was the care of Kesars and of Kings.

570

One onelie lives, her ages ornament,

And

myrrour of her Makers maiestie,

That with rich bountie, and deare cherishment,

Supports the praise of noble Poësie;

Ne onelie favours them which it professe,
But is her selfe a peereles Poëtesse.

Most peereles Prince, most peereles Poëtesse,
The true Pandora of all heavenly graces,
Divine Elisa, sacred Emperesse!

575

Live she for ever, and her royall p'laces

580

1 Whilom, formerly.

Be fild with praises of divinest wits,

That her eternize with their heavenlie writs!

Some few beside this sacred skill esteme,
Admirers of her glorious excellence;

Which, being lightned with her beauties beme,
Are thereby fild with happie influence,
And lifted up above the worldës gaze,
To sing with Angels her immortall praize.

But all the rest, as borne of salvage brood,
And having beene with acorns alwaies fed,
Can no whit savour this celestiall food,
But with base thoughts are into blindnesse led,
And kept from looking on the lightsome day:
For whome I waile and weepe all that I may.·

585

590

Eftsoones1 such store of teares shee forth did powre, As if shee all to water would have gone;

2

And all her Sisters, seeing her sad stowre,
Did weep and waile, and made exceeding mone,
And all their learned instruments did breake:
The rest untold no living tongue can speake.

595

600

VIRGILS GNAT.

LONG SINCE DEDICATED

TO THE MOST NOBLE AND EXCELLENT LORD,

THE EARLE OF LEICESTER,

LATE DECEASED.

1591.

LONG SINCE DEDICATED

TO THE MOST NOBLE AND EXCELLENT LORD,

THE EARLE OF LEICESTER,

LATE DECEASED.

WRONG'D,* yet not daring to expresse my paine,
To you (great lord) the causer of my care,
In clowdie teares my case I thus complaine
Unto your selfe, that onely privie are.
But if that any Edipus unware

Shall chaunce, through power of some divining spright,
To reade the secrete of this riddle rare,

And know the purporte of my evill plight;
Let him rest pleased with his owne insight,
Ne further seeke to glose upon the text:
For griefe enough it is to grieved wight
To feele his fault, and not be further vext.

But what so by my selfe may not be showen,
May by this Gnatts complaint be easily knowen.

*Nothing is known with certainty respecting the wrong of which Spenser here complains. Some biographers have one conjecture, and some another, upon the subject.