‘But where ye doubt, the truth not knowing, Believing the best, good may be growing. In judging the best, no harm at the least: In judging the worst, no good at the best. But best in these things it seemeth to me, To make no judgment upon ye; But as the church does judge or take them, So do ye receive or forsake them. And so be you sure you cannot err, But may be a fruitful follower.’ Nothing can be clearer than this. The RETURN FROM PARNASSUS was ‘first publicly acted,’ as the title-page imports, ‘by the Students in St. John’s College, in Cambridge.’ It is a very singular, a very ingenious, and as I think, a very interesting performance. It contains criticisms on contemporary authors, strictures on living manners, and the earliest denunciation (I know of) of the miseries and unprofitableness of a scholar’s life. The only part I object to in our author’s criticism is his abuse of Marston; and that, not because he says what is severe, but because he says what is not true of him. Anger may sharpen our insight into men’s defects; but nothing should make us blind to their excellences. The whole passage is, however, so curious in itself (like the Edinburgh Review lately published for the year 1755) that I cannot forbear quoting a great part of it. We find in the list of candidates for praise many a name— ‘That like a trumpet, makes the spirits dance:’ there are others that have long since sunk to the bottom of the stream of time, and no Humane Society of Antiquarians and Critics is ever likely to fish them up again. ‘Read the names,’ says Judicio. _‘Ingenioso._ So I will, if thou wilt help me to censure them. Edmund Spenser, Henry Constable, Thomas Lodge, Samuel Daniel, Thomas Watson, Michael Drayton, John Davis, John Marston, Kit. Marlowe, William Shakespear;’ and one Churchyard [who is consigned to an untimely grave.] ‘Good men and true, stand together, hear your censure: what’s thy judgment of Spenser? _Jud._ A sweeter swan than ever sung in Po; A shriller nightingale than ever blest The prouder groves of self-admiring Rome. Blithe was each valley, and each shepherd proud, While he did chaunt his rural minstrelsy. Attentive was full many a dainty ear: Nay, hearers hung upon his melting tongue, While sweetly of his Faëry Queen he sung; While to the water’s fall he tuned her fame, And in each bark engrav’d Eliza’s name. And yet for all, this unregarding soil Unlaced the line of his desired life, Denying maintenance for his dear relief; Careless even to prevent his exequy, Scarce deigning to shut up his dying eye. _Ing._ Pity it is that gentler wits should breed, Where thick-skinn’d chuffs laugh at a scholar’s need. But softly may our honour’d ashes rest, That lie by merry Chaucer’s noble chest.