n a n d i n i d a s 'A gentle knight was pricking on the plaine', begins one of the most ambitious poems of sixteenth-century England, Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene (1590). 1 Within the European literary canon, epics like the Iliad, the Odyssey, the Aeneid, and the Argonautica had all begun, in some way, with the promise of a journey. No stranger to that classical heritage, which a humanist education inculcated in all its students, Spenser brought travel back home: his knight, familiar enough to English readers with their still insatiable appetite for medieval romances and their characteristic quests, sets forth in a Faerie land that is not-quite-England. Spenser was not the only one. The revised and much-augmented second version of Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia in 1593 memorably begins with two shepherds being interrupted in their pastoral laments by a 'thing' that floats closer and closer to the shore, till it turns out to be the shipwrecked, but still living, body of one of the two protagonists. 2 It is a moment that merges two worlds: the seclusion of the European pastoral tradition and the sprawling geopolitical world of Greek romances like Heliodorus's Aethiopica, shaped by the crosscurrents of ancient global traffic. By the end of the century, on the English popular stage, a play that we now think of as representative of a certain nascent early modern sensibility would turn to its denouement with the arrival of a travel letter:horatio: What are they that would speak with me? servant: Seafaring men, sir. They say they have letters for you. 3