younger. Both now, and in later
years, his affection for one who was become to him a glorified saint,
showed itself in deep and genuine expression, through the affectations
which crowned the "herse" of Astrophel and Philisides. He was persuaded
that Sidney's death had been a grave blow to literature and learning.
The _Ruins of Time_, and still more the _Tears of the Muses_, are full
of lamentations over returning barbarism and ignorance, and the slight
account made by those in power of the gifts and the arts of the writer,
the poet, and the dramatist. Under what was popularly thought the
crabbed and parsimonious administration of Burghley, and with the
churlishness of the Puritans, whom he was supposed to foster, it seemed
as if the poetry of the time was passing away in chill discouragement.
The effect is described in lines which, as we now naturally suppose, and
Dryden also thought, can refer to no one but Shakespere. But it seems
doubtful whether all this could have been said of Shakespere in 1590. It
seems more likely that this also is an extravagant compliment to Philip
Sidney, and his masking performances. He was lamented elsewhere under
the poetical name of _Willy_. If it refers to him, it was probably
written before his death, though not published till after it; for the
lines imply, not that he is literally dead, but that he is in
retirement. The expression that he is "dead of late," is explained in
four lines below, as "choosing to sit in idle cell," and is one of
Spenser's common figures for inactivity or sorrow.[107:1]

The verses are the lamentations of the Muse of Comedy.

THALIA.

Where be the sweete delights of learning's treasure
That wont with Comick sock to beautefie
The painted Theaters, and fill with pleasure
The listners eyes and eares with melodie;
In which I late was wont to raine as Queene,
And maske in mirth with Graces well bescene?

O! all is gone; and all that goodly glee,
Which wont to be the glorie of gay wits,
Is layed abed, and no where now to see;
And in her roome unseemly Sorrow sits,
With hollow browes and greisly countenaunce,
Marring my joyous gentle dalliaunce.

And him beside sits ugly Barbarisme,
And brutish Ignorance, ycrept of late
Out of dredd darknes of the deepe Abysme,
Where being bredd, he light and heaven does hate:
They in the mindes of men now tyrannize,
And the fair