Then, again, in an Epithalamion of his _Underwoods_, as they were called, there is a fragment of verse, which, in many of its delicious couplets, shows the grace and art of Spenser’s wonderful “Epithalamion,” which we read a little time ago:--He is picturing the bridesmaids strewing the bride’s path with flowers:-- “With what full hands, and in how plenteous showers Have they bedewed the earth where she doth tread, As if her airy steps did spring the flowers, And all the ground were garden, where she led.” Such verses do not come often into our newspaper corners, from first hands: such verses make one understand the significance of that inscription which came by merest accident to be written on his tomb in Westminster Abbey--“O rare Ben Jonson!” I do not believe I shall fatigue you--and I know I shall keep you in the way of good things if I give another fragment from one of his festal operettas;--the “Angel” is describing and symbolizing Truth, in the _Masque of Hymen_:-- “Upon her head she wears a crown of stars, Thro’ which her orient hair waves to her waist, By which believing mortals hold her fast, And in those golden cords are carried even Till with her breath she blows them up to Heaven. She wears a robe enchased with eagles’ eyes, To signify her sight in mysteries; Upon each shoulder sits a milk-white dove, And at her feet do witty serpents move; Her spacious arms do reach from East to west, And you may see her heart shine thro’ her breast. Her right hand holds a sun with burning rays Her left, a curious bunch of golden keys With which Heaven’s gates she locketh and displays. A crystal mirror hangeth at her breast, By which men’s consciences are searched and drest; On her coach-wheels, Hypocrisy lies racked; And squint-eyed Slander with Vain glory backed, Her bright eyes burn to dust, in which shines Fate; An Angel ushers her triumphant gait, Whilst with her fingers fans of stars she twists, And with them beats back Error, clad in mists, Eternal Unity behind her shines, That Fire and Water, Earth and Air combines; Her voice is like a trumpet, loud and shrill, Which bids all sounds in earth and heaven be still.” In that line of work Shakespeare never did a better thing than this. Indeed, in those days many, perhaps most, people of learning and culture thought Ben Jonson the better man of the two;--more instructed (as he doubtless was); with a nicer knowledge of the unities; a nicer knowledge of mere conventionalities of all sorts: Shakespeare was a humble, plain Warwickshire man, with no fine tinsel to his wardrobe--had no university training; not so much schooling or science of any sort as Ben Jonson; had come up to London--as would seem--to make his fortune, to get money--to blaze his way: and how he did it!