ABSTRACT

There thou upon the Sepulchre maist look Of Chaucer, our true Ennius, whose old book Hath taught our Nation so to Poetize, That English rythmes now any equalize; That we no more need envy at the straine Of Tiber, Tagus, or our neighbor Seine. There Spencers Tomb thou likewise maist behold, Which he deserved, were it made of gold: If honour'd Colin, thou hadst liv'd so long, As to have finished thy Faery Song, Not onely mine, but all tongues would confess, Thou hadst exceeded old Maeonides.