Spenser's misery was exaggerated by succeeding
poets, who used him to point a moral, and from the shelter of his
tomb launched many a shaft of sarcasm at an unappreciative public.
Giles Fletcher in his "Purple Island" (a poem which reminds us of the
"Faery Queen" by the supreme tediousness of its allegory, but in
nothing else) set the example in the best verse he ever wrote:--
"Poorly, poor man, he lived; poorly, poor man, he died."
Gradually this poetical tradition established itself firmly as
authentic history. Spenser could never have been poor, except by
comparison. The whole story of his later days has a strong savor of
legend. He must have had ample warning of Tyrone's rebellion, and
would probably have sent away his wife and children to Cork, if he
did not go thither himself. I am inclined to think that he did,
carrying his papers with him, and among them the two cantos of
Mutability, first published in 1611. These, it is most likely, were
the only ones he ever completed, for, with all his abundance, he was
evidently a laborious finisher. When 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.
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