and fraught with fickleness;
        And learned had to love with secret looks;
      And well could dance; and sing with ruefulness;
        And fortunes tell; and read in loving books;
    And thousand other ways to bait his fleshly hooks.

      Inconstant man that loved all he saw,
        And lusted after all that he did love;
      Ne would his looser life be tied to law;
        But joyed weak women’s hearts to tempt and prove,
    If from their loyal loves he might them move.”

This is pretty plain-spoken.  Mr. Southey says of Spenser: 

“------Yet not more sweet
Than pure was he, and not more pure than wise;
High priest of all the Muses’ mysteries!”

On the contrary, no one was more apt to pry into mysteries which do not strictly belong to the Muses.

Of the same kind with the Procession of the Passions, as little obscure, and still more beautiful, is the Mask of Cupid, with his train of votaries: 

      “The first was Fancy, like a lovely boy
        Of rare aspect, and beauty without peer;

      His garment neither was of silk nor say,
        But painted plumes in goodly order dight,
      Like as the sun-burnt Indians do array
        Their tawny bodies in their proudest plight: 
      As those same plumes so seem’d he vain and light,
        That by his gait might easily appear;
      For still he far’d as dancing in delight,
        And in his hand a windy fan did bear
    That in the idle air he mov’d still here and there.

      And him beside march’d amorous Desire,
        Who seem’d of riper years than the other swain,
      Yet was that other swain this elder’s sire,
        And gave him being, common to them twain: 
      His garment was disguised very vain,
        And his embroidered bonnet sat awry;
      Twixt both his hands few sparks he close did strain,
        Which still he blew, and kindled busily,
    That soon they life conceiv’d and forth in flames did fly.

      Next after him went Doubt, who was yclad
        In a discolour’d coat of strange disguise,
      That at his back a broad capuccio had,
        And sleeves dependant Albanese-wise;
      He lookt askew with his mistrustful eyes,
        And nicely trod, as thorns lay in his way,
      Or that the floor to shrink he did avise;
        And on a broken reed he still did stay
    His feeble steps, which shrunk when hard thereon he lay.

      With him went Daunger, cloth’d in ragged weed,
        Made of bear’s skin, that him more dreadful made;
      Yet his own face was dreadfull, ne did need
        Strange horror to deform his grisly shade;
      A net in th’ one hand, and a rusty blade
        In th’ other was; this Mischiefe, that Mishap;
      With th’ one his foes he threat’ned to invade,
        With th’ other he his friends meant to enwrap;
    For whom he could not kill he practiz’d to entrap.