And whatso else, of virtue good or ill,One sometimes feels in reading him as if he were the pure sense of the beautiful incarnated to the one end that he might interpret it to our duller perceptions. So exquisite was his sensibility,2 that with him sensation and intellection seem identical, and we ‘can almost say his body thought.’ This subtle interfusion of sense with spirit it is that gives his poetry a crystalline purity
Grew in that garden, fetcht from far away,
Of every one he takes and tastes at will,
And on their pleasures greedily doth prey’?
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2 Of this he himself gives a striking hint, where speaking in his own person he suddenly breaks in on his narrative with the passionate cry,
Ah, dearest God, me grant I dead be not defouled.Faery Queen, B. I. c x. 43.
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