# The Works of Edmund Spenser/The Shepheards Calender/Epistle

TO THE MOST EXCELLENT AND LEARNED
BOTH ORATOR AND POET,
MAISTER GABRIEL HARVEY,
His verie speciall and singular good friend E. K. commendeth the good lyking of this his labour, and the patronage of the new Poet.
Uncouth, unkist, said the old famous poet Chaucer: whom for his excellencie and wonderfull skill in making, his scholler Lidgate, a worthie scholler of so excellent a master, calleth the load-starre of our language: and whom our Colin Clout in his Eglogue calleth Tityrus the god of shepheards, comparing him to the worthinesse of the Roman Tityrus, Virgil. Which proverb, mine owne good friend M. Harvey, as in that good old poet it served well Pandares purpose for the bolstering of his bawdie brocage, so very well taketh place in this our new poet, who for that hee is uncouth as (sayde Chaucer) is unkist, and unknowne to most men, is regarded but of a fewe. But I doubt not, so soone as his name shall come into the knowledge of men, and his woorthinesse bee sounded in the trumpe of fame, but that hee shall be not only kist, but also beloved of all, imbraced of the most, and wondred at of the best, No iesse, I thinke, deserveth his wittinesse in devising, his pithinesse in uttering, his complaints of love so lovely, his discourses of pleasure so pleasantly, his pastoral rudenes, his morall wisenesse, his due observing of decorum everie where, in personages, in seasons, in matter, in speech; and generallie, in all seemely simplicitie of handling his matters, and framing his wordes: the which of many things which in him be straunge, I know will seeme the strangest, and wordes themselves being so auncient, the knitting of them so short and intricate, and the whole period and compasse of speech so delightsom for the roundnesse, and so grave for the strangeness. And first of the wordes to speake, I graunt they bee something hard, and of most men unused, yet both English, and also used of most excellent authours, and most famous poets. In whom, when as this our poet hath bin much travailed and throughly read, how could it be, (as that worthie oratour ​sayde) but that walking in the sunne, althouth for other cause he walked, yet needes he mought be sunburnt; and, having the sound of those auncieut poets still ringing in his eares, he mought needes, in singing, hit out some of their tunes. But whether he useth them by such casualtie and custome or of set purpose and choice, as thinking them fittest for such rustical rudenesse of shepheards, either for that their rough sound would make his rimes more ragged and rusticall; or else because such old and obsolete wordes are most used of country folke, sure I thinke, and thinke I think not amisse, that they bring great grace, and, as one would say, authoritie to the verse. For albe, amongst many other faults, it specially be obiected of Valla against Livie, and of other against Salust, that with over much studie they affect antiquitie, as covering thereby credence and honour of elder yeares; yet I am of opinon, and eke the best learned are of the like, that those auncient solemne words, are a great ornament, both in the one, and in the other: the one labouring to set forth in his worke an eternall image of antiquitie, and the other carefully discoursing matters of gravity and importance. For, if my memorie faile not, Tully in that booke, wherein he endeavoureth to set forth the patterne of a perfect orator, saith that ofttimes an ancient worde maketh the stile seeme grave, and as it were reverend, no otherwise than we honor and reverence gray haires for a certaine religious regard, which we have of old age. Yet neither every where must old wordes be stuffed in, nor the common dialect and manner of speaking so corrupted thereby, that, as in olde buildings, it seeme disorderly and ruynous. But all as in most exquisite pictures they use to blaze and portraict not only the daintie lineaments of beautie, but also round about it to shadowe the rude thickets and craggy clifts, that, by the baseness of such parts, more excellencie may acrew to the principall: for oftentimes we find our selves, I know not how, singularly delighted with the shew of such naturall rudenesse, and take great pleasure in that disorderly order. Even so doo those rough and harsh tearmes enlumine, and make more clearly to appeare, the brightnesse of brave and glorious wordes. So oftentimes a discorde in musike maketh a comely concordance: so great delight tooke the worthie poet Alceus to behold a blemish in the ioynt of a well shaped bodie. But, if any will rashly blame such his purpose in choise of olde and unwonted wordes, him may I more iustly blame and condemne, or of witlesse headinesse in iudging, or of heedless hardinesse in condemning: for, not marking the compasse of his bent, he will iudge of the length of his cast: for in my opinion it is one of especiall praise of many, which are due to this poet, that he hath labored to restore, as to their rightful heritage, such good and naturall English wordes, as have beene long time out of use, and almost cleane disherited. Which is the only cause, that our mother tongue, which truly of itself is both full inough for prose, and stately inough for verse, hath long time been counted most bare and barren of both. Which default when as some endevoured to salve and recure, they patched up the holes with peeces and rags of other languages, borrowing here of the French, there of the Italian, every where of the Latin; not weighing how ill those tongues accord with themselves, but much worse with ours: so now they have made our English tong a gall maufrey, or hodgepodge of all other speeches. Other some not so well seene in the Englisgh tongue, as perhaps in other languages, if they happen to heare an olde word albeit very naturall and significant, cry out straightway, that we speake no English, but gibberish, or rather such as in olde time Evanders mothers spake: whose first shame is, that they are not ashamed, in their own mother tongue, to bee counted strangers and aliens. The second shame no lesse then the first, that what so they understand not, they streightway deeme to be senselesse, and not at all to be understoode. Much like to the mole in Aesops fable that, being blind herself, would in no wise be perswaded, that any beast could see. The last, more shamefull then both, that of their owne country and natural speach, which togither with their nurses milke they sucked, they have so base regard & bastard iudgement, that they wil not only themselves not labor to garnish and beautifie it, but also repine, that of other it should be embellished. Like to the dogge in the maunger, that himselfe can eate no hay, and yet barketh at the hungrie bullock, that so faine would feed: whose currish kinde, though it cannot be kept from barking, yet I conne them thanke that they refraine from byting.
Now, for the knitting of sentences, which they call the ioynts and members thereof, & for all the compasse of the speech, it is round without roughnesse, and learned without hardnesse, such in deede as may be perceyved of the least, understood of the most, but iudged onely of the learned. For what in most English writers useth to be loose, and as it were unright, in this authour is well grounded, finely framed, and strongly trussed up togither. In regarde whereof, I scorne and spew out the rakehelly rout of our ragged rymers (for so themselves use to hunt the letter) which without learning boast, without iudgement iangle, without reason rage and fome, as if some instinct of poetical spirit had newly ravished them above the meannesse of common capacitie. And being, in the midst of all their braverie, suddenly, either for want of matter, or rime; or having forgotten their former conceit; they seem to be so pained and travailed in their remembrance, as it were a woman in childbirth, or as that same Pythia, when the traunce came upon her. “Os rabidum fera corda domans, &c.”
Nethlesse, let them a God’s name feed on their owne folly, so they seeke not to darken the beams of others glorie. As for Colin, under whose person the authors selfe is shadowed, how farre he is from such vaunted titles and glorious shewes, both himselfe sheweth, were he sayth:
“Of muses Hobbin, I conne no skill.”
And,
“Enough is me to paint out my unrest, &c.”
And also appeareth by the basenesse of the name, wherein it seemeth he chose rather to unfold great matter of argument covertly then, professing it, not suffice thereto accordingly. Which moved him rather in Æglogues then otherwise to write, doubting perhaps his ability, which he little needed, or minding to furnish our tongue with this kinde, wherein it faulteth; or following the example of the best and most ancient poets, which devised this kinde of writing, being both so base for the matter, and homely for the maner, at the first to trie their habilities; and as young birdes, that be newly crept out of ​the nest, by little first prove their tender winges, before they make a greater flight. So flew Theocritus, as you may perceyve hee was alreadie full fledged. So flew Virgil, as not yet well feeling his wings. So flewe Mantuane, as not being ful sound. So Petrarque. So Boccace. So Marot, Sanazarius and also diverse other excellent both Italian and French poets, whose footing this author everie where foloweth; yet so as few, but they be well sented, can trace him out. So finally flieth this our new poet as a birde whose principals be scarce growne out, but yet as one that in time shall be able to keepe wing with the best. Now, as touching the general drift and purpose of his Æglogues, I mind not to say much, himself laboring to conceal it. Only this appeareth, that his unstayed youth had long wandred in the common Labirinth of Love, in which time to mitigate and allay the heate of his passion, or else to warne (as he saith) the yong shepheards, his equals and companions of his unfortunate folly, hee compiled these twelve Aeglogues, which, for that they be proportioned to the state of the twelve moneths, he tearmeth it the Shepheards Calender, applying an olde name to a new work. Hereunto have I added a certaine glosse, or scholion, for the exposition of olde wordes and harder phrases; which maner of glossing and commenting, well I wote, will seeme strange and rare in our tongue: yet, for so much as I knewe many excellent and proper devises, both in wordes and matter, would passe in the speedie course of reading either as unknowne, or as not marked; and that in this kinde, as in other we might be equal to the learned of other nations; I thought good to take the paines upon me, the rather for that by meanes of some familiar acquaintance I was made privie to his counsaile and secret meaning in them, as also in sundrie other works of his. Which albeit I know he nothing so much hateth, as to promulgate, yet thus much have I adventured upon his friendship, himselfe being for long time farre estraunged; hoping that this will the rather occasion him to put foorth diverse other excellent works of his, which sleep in silence; as his Dreams, his Legends, his Court of Cupid, and sundrie others, whose commendation to set out were verie vaine, the things though worthie of many, yet beeing knowne to fewe. These my present paines, if to any they be pleasurable or profitable, be you iudge mine owne maister Harvey, to whom I have both in respect of your worthines generally, and otherwise upon some particular and speciall considerations, vowed this my labour, and the maidenheade of this our common friends poetrie; himselfe having alreadie in the beginning dedicated it to the noble and worthie gentleman, the right worshipfull maister Philip Sidney, a speciall favourer and maintainer of all kinde of learning. Whose cause, I pray you, sir, if envie shall stirre up any wrongfull accusation, defend with your mightie rhetoricke and other your rath gifts of learning, as you can, and shield with your good will, as you ought, against the malice and outrage of so many enemies, as I know will bee set on fire with the sparkes of his kindled glorie. And thus recommending the authour unto you, as unto his most speciall good friend, and my selfe unto you both, as one making singular account of two so very good & so choise friends, I bid you both most heartily fare well, and commit you and your commendable studies to the tuition of the Greatest.
Your owne assuredly to be commaunded, E. K.
       Post scr.
Now I trust, M. Harvey, that upon sight of your speciall friends and fellow poets doings, or else for envie of so many unworthy quidams, which catch at the garland which to you alone is due, you wil be perswaded to plucke out of the hatefull darknes those so many excellent English poems of yours which lie hid, and bring them forth to eternal light. Trust me, you do both them great wrong, in depriving them of the desired sun; and also your selfe, in smothering your deserved praises; and all men generally, in withholding from them so divine pleasures, which they might conceive of your gallant English verses, as they have alreadie done of your Latin poems, which, in my opinion, both for invention and elocution, are verie delicate and superexcellent. And thus againe I take my leave of my good M. Harvey. From my lodging at London this tenth of Aprill, 1579.