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,