EPITHALAMION.
WRITTEN NOT LONG SINCE BY
EDMUNDE SPENSER.
PRINTED FOR WILLIAM POSBONBY.
1595.
G. W. SENIOR*, TO THE AUTHOR.
[* These commendatory Sonnets first appeared in the first folio edition of Spenser’s entire works (1611). G. W., as Todd conjectures, may be George Whetstone. C.]
Darke is the day when Phoebus face is shrowded,
And weaker sights may wander soone astray;
But when they see his glorious raies unclowded,
With steddy steps they keepe the perfect way:
So, while this Muse in forraine land doth stay,
Invention weepes, and pennes are cast aside;
The time, like night, deprivd of chearfull day;
And few doe write, but ah! too soone may slide.
Then hie thee home, that art our perfect guide,
And with thy wit illustrate Englands fame,
Daunting therby our neighbors ancient pride,
That do for Poesie challenge chiefest name:
So we that live, and ages that succeed,
With great applause thy learned works shall reed.
Ah! Colin, whether on the lowly plaine,
Piping to shepheards thy sweet roundelayes,
Or whether singing, in some loftie vaine,
Heroicke deeds of past or present dayes,
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 therin can ever ioy their fill!
O, therefore let that happy Muse proceed
To clime the height of Vertues sacred hill,
Where endlesse honour shal be made thy meed:
Because no malice of succeeding daies
Can rase those records of thy lasting praise.
G. W. I[unior].