Many of Spenser's readers today find the cleavings and reunifications of Redcrosse and Una presenting a psychodrama of mental fragmentation […]
The foxfire,—as the country people call it,—glowed hideously from the cold and matted bosom of the marsh; and, far from us, in the depths of darkness, the screech-owl sat upon his perch, brooding over the slimy pool, and whooping out a dismal curfew, that fell upon the ear like the cries of a tortured ghost.
I have not the slightest objection to any temper Mr. Allenmay show, but when he attributes a motive, and more than hints that I am abusing these columns by surreptitious advertising, I disdain to do further battle with him.
Could it but for a longer Space / Lengthen the Bliſs it let's us taſte, / Who would not doat on't? But alas! / The Joy's too exquiſite to laſt. / Two white Herculean Pillars prop / The tufted Gin, the tempting Snare; / When they divide, then in we pop, / Before we well know where we are. / Then that for this, and tit for tat; / But when the pleaſing Minute's flown, / As uſeleſs it returns the Bait, / And both look fooliſh when 'tis done.
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