By that same river lurking under greene, Eftsoones* he gins to fashion forth a place, 650 And, squaring it in compasse well beseene**, There plotteth out a tombe by measured space: His yron-headed spade tho making cleene, To dig up sods out of the flowrie grasse, His worke he shortly to good purpose brought, 655 Like as he had conceiv’d it in his thought. [* _Eftsoones_, immediately.] [** _Well beseene_, seemly.] An heape of earth he hoorded up on hie, Enclosing it with banks on everie side, And thereupon did raise full busily A little mount, of greene turffs edifide*; 660 And on the top of all, that passers by Might it behold, the toomb he did provide Of smoothest marble stone in order set, That never might his luckie scape forget. [* _Edifide_, built.] And round about he taught sweete flowres to growe; 665 The Rose, engrained in pure scarlet die; The Lilly fresh, and Violet belowe; The Marigolde, and cherefull Rosemarie; The Spartan Mirtle, whence sweet gumb does flowe; The purple Hyacinths, and fresh Costmarie, 670 And Saffron, sought for in Cilician soyle, And Lawrell, th’ornament of Phoebus toyle: Fresh Rhododaphne, and the Sabine flowre*, Matching the wealth of th’auncient Frankincence; And pallid Yvie, building his owne bowre; 675 And Box, yet mindfull of his olde offence; Red Amaranthus, lucklesse paramour; Oxeye still greene, and bitter Patience; Ne wants there pale Narcisse, that, in a well Seeing his beautie, in love with it fell. 680 [* _Sabine flowre_, a kind of juniper, the savine.] And whatsoever other flowre of worth, And whatso other hearb of lovely hew The ioyous Spring out of the ground brings forth, To cloath her selfe in colours fresh and new, He planted there, and reard a mount of earth, 685 In whose high front was writ as doth ensue: _To thee, small Gnat, in lieu of his life saved,_ _The Shepheard hath thy deaths record engraved._ FOOTNOTES: VIRGILS GNAT. This is a very skilful elaboration of the Culex, a poem attributed, without reason, to Virgil. The original, which is crabbed and pedantic, where it is not unintelligible from corruption, is here rendered with sufficient fidelity to the sense, but with such perspicuity, elegance, and sweetness, as to make Spenser’s performance too good a poem to be called a translation. C. PROSOPOPOIA: OR MOTHER HUBBERDS TALE. BY ED. SP. DEDICATED TO THE RIGHT HONORABLE, THE LADIE COMPTON AND MOUNTEGLE. LONDON. IMPRINTED FOR WILLIAM PONSONBIE, DWELLING IN PAULES CHURCHYARD AT THE SIGNE OF THE BISHOPS HEAD. 1591. TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE, THE LADIE COMPTON AND MOUNTEGLE.[*]