we remember that ten years were given to the elaboration of the first three books, and that five more elapsed before the next three were ready, we shall waste no vain regrets on the six concluding books supposed to have been lost by the carelessness of an imaginary servant on their way from Ireland. He sought shelter in London and died there on the 16th January, 1599, at a tavern in King Street, Westminster.
He was buried in the neighboring Abbey next to Chaucer, at the cost of the Earl of Essex, poets bearing his pall and casting verses into his grave.
He died poor, but not in want.
On the whole, his life may be reckoned a happy one, as in the main the lives of the great poets must have commonly been.
If they feel more passionately the pang of the moment, so also the compensations are incalculable, and not the least of them this very capacity of passionate emotion.
The real good fortune is to be measured, not by more or less of outward prosperity, but by the opportunity given