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,