of Spenser were very different things, different both in the moving spirit and the resultant form from the later ones of Browne or the Piscatory Eclogues of Phinehas Fletcher.
Browne and Fletcher wrote because Spenser had written, but SpeBrowne and Fletcher wrote because Spenser had written, but Spenser wrote from a strong inward impulse—an instinct it might be called—to escape at all risks into the fresh air from that horrible atmosphere into which rhymer after rhymer had been pumping carbonic-acid gas with the full force of his lungs, and in song recalls that in Dante's Purgatorio (Xix.
19-24), in which the Italian tongue puts forth all its siren allurements.
Browne's beautiful verses (‘Turn, hither turn your winged pines’) were suggested by these of Spenser.
It might almost seem as i more eminent ones than any other writer of English verse.
I need say nothing of Milton, nor of professed disciples like Browne, the two Fletchers, and More.
Cowley tells us that he became irrecoverably a poet by reading the Faery Queen when a boy
ific than anything in the language, unless it be some parts of Samson Agonistes.
I remember an old gentleman who always used the contracted form of the participle in conversation, but always gave it back its embezzled syllable in reading.
Sir Thomas Browne seems to have preferred the more solemn form.
At any rate he has the spelling empuzzeled in prose. Indeed, I venture to affirm that there is not a single variety of spelling or accent to be found in Milton which is without example in his nderful passage in Comus of the airy tongues, perhaps the most imaginative in suggestion he ever wrote, was conjured out of a dry sentence in Purchas's abstract of Marco Polo.
Such examples help us to understand the poet.
When I find that Sir Thomas Browne had said before Milton, that Adam was the wisest of all men since, I am glad to find this link between the most profound and the most stately imagination of that age. Such parallels sometimes give a hint also of the historical development o