Mr. EDMOND SPENSER.
Reading edition
This our Famous Poet, Mr. Edmond Spenser, was born in the City of London, and brought up in Pembroke-Hall in Cambridge; where he became a most excellent Scholar, but especially very happy in English Poetry, as his learned, elaborate Works do declare, which whoso shall peruse with a judicious eye, will find to have in them the very height of Poetick fancy, and though some blame his Writings for the many Chaucerisms used by him, yet to the Learned they are known not to be blemishes, but rather beauties to his Book; which, notwithstanding, (saith a learned Writer) had been more salable, if more conformed to our modern language.
His first flight in Poetry, as not thinking himself fully fledged, was in that Book of his, called The Shepherds Kalendar, applying an old Name to a new Book; It being of Eclogues fitted to each Month in the Year: of which Work hear what that worthy Knight, Sir Philip Sidney writes, whose judgment in such cases is counted infallible: The Shepherds Kalendar (saith he) hath much Poetry in his Eclogues, indeed worthy the reading, if I be not deceived; That same framing his Stile to an old rustick Language, I dare not allow, since neither Theocritus in Greek, Virgil in Latine, nor Sanazara in Italian did effect it. Afterwards he translated the Gnat, a little fragment of Virgil's excellency. Then he translated Bellay his Ruins of Rome; His most unfortunate Work was that of Mother Hubbard's Tale, giving therein offence to one in authority, who afterwards stuck on his skirts. But his main Book, and which indeed I think Envy its self cannot carp at, was his Fairy Queen, a Work of such an ingenious composure as will last as long as time endures.
Now as you have heard what esteem Sir Philip Sidney had of his Book, so you shall hear what esteem Mr. Spenser had of Sir Philip Sidney, writing thus in his Ruins of Time.
Yet will I sing, but who can better sing Than thou thy self, thine own selfs valiance? That while thou livedst thou madest the Forests ring, And Fields resound, and Flocks to leap and dance, And Shepherds leave their Lambs unto mischance, To run thy shrill Arcadian Pipe to hear, O happy were those days, thrice happy were.
In the same his Poem of the Ruins of Time, you may see what account he makes of the World, and of the immortal Fame gotten by Poesie.
In vain do earthly Princes then, in vain, Seek with Pyramids to Heaven aspir'd; Or huge Collosses, built with costly pain; Or brazen Pillars never to be fir'd, Or Shrines, made of the metal most desir'd, To make their Memories for ever live, For how can mortal immortality give? For deeds do die, however nobly done, And thoughts of men do in themselves decay, But wise words taught in numbers for to run, Recorded by the Muses, live for aye; Ne may with storming showers be wash'd away, Ne bitter breathing with harmful blast, Nor age, nor envy, shall them ever wast.
There passeth a story commonly told and believed, that Mr. Spenser presenting his Poems to Queen Elizabeth, she highly affected therewith, commanded the Lord Cecil, her Treasurer, to give him an Hundred Pound; and when the Treasurer (a good Steward of the Queen's Money) alledged, that Sum was too much for such a matter; then give him, quoth the Queen, what is reason; but was so busied, or seemed to be so, about matters of higher concernment, that Mr. Spenser received no reward: whereupon he presented this Petition in a small piece of Paper to the Queen in her progress.
I was promis'd on a time, To have reason for my rime, From that time unto this season, I receiv'd nor rime nor reason.
This tart reflect so wrought upon the Queen, that she gave strict order (not without some check to her Treasurer) for the present payment of the hundred pounds she first intended him.
He afterwards went over into Ireland, Secretary to the Lord Gray, Lord Deputy thereof; and though that his Office under his Lord was lucrative, yet got he no Estate; Peculiari Poetis fato semper cum paupertate conflictatus est, saith the reverend Cambden; so that it fared little better with him, (than with Churchyard or Tusser before him) or with William Xiliander the German, (a most excellent Linguist, Antiquary, Philosopher, and Mathematician) who was so poor, that (as Thuanus writes) he was thought, Fami non famæ scribere.
Thriving so bad in that boggy Country, to add to his misery, he was robb'd by the Rebels of that little he had left; whereupon, in great grief, he returns into England, and falling into want, which to a noble spirit is most killing, being heartbroken, he died Anno 1598. and was honourably buried at the sole charge of Robert, first of that name Earl of Essex, on whose Monument is written this Epitaph.
Edmundus Spencer, Londinensis, Anglicorum Poetarum nostri seculi fuit Princeps, quod ejus Poemata, faventibus Musis, & victuro genio conscripta comprobant. Obiit immatura morte, Anno salutis, 1598. & prope Galfredum Chaucerum conditur, qui scoelisissime Poesin Anglicis literis primus illustravit. In quem hæc scripta sunt Epitaphia.
Hic prope Chaucerum situs est Spenserius, illi Proximus ingenio, proximus ut tumulo. Hic prope Chaucerum Spensere poeta poetam Conderis, & versu! quam tumulo proprior, Anglica te vivo vixit, plausitque Poesis; Nunc moritura timet, te moriente, mori.
These two last lines, for the worthiness of the Poet, are thus translated by Dr. Fuller.
Whilest thou didst live, liv'd English Poetry, Which fears, now thou art dead, that she shall die.
A modern Author writes, that the Lord Cecil owed Mr. Spenser a grudge for some Reflections of his in Mother Hubbard's Tale, and therefore when the Queen had order'd him that Money, the Lord Treasurer said, What all this for a Song? And this he is said to have taken so much to heart, that he contracted a deep Melancholy, which soon after brought his life to a period: so apt is an ingenious spirit to resent a slighting even from the greatest persons. And thus much I must needs say of the Merit of so great a Poet, from so great a Monarch, that it is incident to the best of Poets sometimes to flatter some Royal or Noble Patron, never did any do it more to the height, or with greater art and elegance, if the highest of praises attributed to so Heroick a Princess can justly be termed flattery.