Her snowy breast was bare to greedy spoil Of hungry eyes which n’ ote therewith be fill’d, And yet through languor of her late sweet toil Few drops more clear than nectar forth distill’d, That like pure Orient perles adown it trill’d; And her fair eyes sweet smiling in delight Moisten’d their fiery beams, with which she thrill’d Frail hearts, yet quenched not; like starry light, Which sparkling on the silent waves does seem more bright.’ The finest things in Spenser are, the character of Una, in the first book; the House of Pride; the Cave of Mammon, and the Cave of Despair; the account of Memory, of whom it is said, among other things, ‘The wars he well remember’d of King Nine, Of old Assaracus and Inachus divine’; the description of Belphœbe; the story of Florimel and the Witch’s son; the Gardens of Adonis, and the Bower of Bliss; the Mask of Cupid; and Colin Clout’s vision, in the last book. But some people will say that all this may be very fine, but that they cannot understand it on account of the allegory. They are afraid of the allegory, as if they thought it would bite them: they look at it as a child looks at a painted dragon, and think it will strangle them in its shining folds. This is very idle. If they do not meddle with the allegory, the allegory will not meddle with them. Without minding it at all, the whole is as plain as a pike-staff. It might as well be pretended that, we cannot see Poussin’s pictures for the allegory, as that the allegory prevents us from understanding Spenser. For instance, when Britomart, seated amidst the young warriors, lets fall her hair and discovers her sex, is it necessary to know the part she plays in the allegory, to understand the beauty of the following stanza? ‘And eke that stranger knight amongst the rest Was for like need enforc’d to disarray. Tho when as vailed was her lofty crest, Her golden locks that were in trammels gay Upbounden, did themselves adown display, And raught unto her heels like sunny beams That in a cloud their light did long time stay; Their vapour faded, shew their golden gleams, And through the persant air shoot forth their azure streams.’ Or is there any mystery in what is said of Belphœbe, that her hair was sprinkled with flowers and blossoms which had been entangled in it as she fled through the woods? Or is it necessary to have a more distinct idea of Proteus, than that which is given of him in his boat, with the frighted Florimel at his feet, while ‘——the cold icicles from his rough beard Dropped adown upon her snowy breast!’ Or is it not a sufficient account of one of the sea-gods that pass by them, to say— ‘That was Arion crowned:— So went he playing on the watery plain.’