University of Virginia Library

TO THE READER.

He, in Elysium, hauing cast his eye
Vpon the figure of a Youth, whose haire
With purple Ribands braided curiously,
Hung on his shoulders wondrous bright and faire;
Said, Virgine, What is he whose heauenly face
Shines past all others, as the Morne the Night;
Whom many maruelling soules, from place to place,
Pursue, and haunt, with sounds of such delight?
Whose countenance (wer't not in the Stygian shade)
Would make me, questionlesse, beleeue he were
A verie God. The learned Virgine made
This answer: If thou shouldst beleeue it here,
Thou shouldst not erre: he well deseru'd to be
Esteem'd a God; nor held his so-much breast
A little presence of the Deitie:
His verse comprisde earth, seas, starres, soules at rest:
In song, the Muses he did equalise;
In honor, Phœbus: he was onely soule;
Saw all things spher'd in Nature, without eyes,
And raisde your Troy vp to the starrie Pole.
Glad Scipio, viewing well this Prince of Ghosts,
Said, O if Fates would giue this Poet leaue,
To sing the acts done by the Romane Hoasts;
How much beyond, would future times receiue
The same facts, made by any other knowne?
O blest Æacides! to haue the grace
That out of such a mouth, thou shouldst be showne
To wondring Nations, as enricht the race
Of all times future, with what he did know:
Thy vertue, with his verse, shall euer grow.

More liuing, then in old Demodocus,
Fame glories to waxe yong in Homers verse.
And as when bright Hyperion holds to vs
His golden Torch; we see the starres disperse,
And euery way flie heauen; the pallid Moone
Euen almost vanishing before his sight:
So with the dazling beames of Homers Sunne,
All other ancient Poets lose their light.
Whom when Apollo heard, out of his starre,
Singing the godlike Acts of honor'd men;
And equalling the actuall rage of warre,
With onely the diuine straines of his pen;
He stood amaz'd, and freely did confesse
Himselfe was equall'd in Mæonides.

Whom shall we choose the glorie of all wits,
Held through so many sorts of discipline,
And such varietie of workes, and spirits;
But Grecian Homer? like whom none did shine,
For forme of worke and matter. And because
Our proud doome of him may stand iustified
By noblest iudgements; and receiue applause
In spite of enuie, and illiterate pride;
Great Macedon, amongst his matchlesse spoiles,
Tooke from rich Persia (on his Fortunes cast)
A Casket finding (full of precious oyles)
Form'd all of gold, with wealthy stones enchac't:
He tooke the oyles out; and his nearest friends
Askt, in what better guard it might be vsde?
All giuing their conceipts, to seuerall ends;
He answerd; His affections rather chusde
An vse quite opposite to all their kinds:
And Homers bookes should with that guard be seru'd;
That the most precious worke of all mens minds,
In the most precious place, might be preseru'd.

Idem. lib. 17. cap. 5. Idem. lib. 25. cap. 3.

The Fount of wit was Homer; Learnings Syre,
And gaue Antiquitie, her liuing fire.
Volumes of like praise, I could heape on this,
Of men more ancient, and more learn'd then these:
But since true Vertue, enough louely is
With her owne beauties; all the suffrages
Of others I omit; and would more faine
That Homer, for himselfe, should be belou'd
Who euerie sort of loue-worth did containe.
Which how I haue in my conuersion prou'd,
I must confesse, I hardly dare referre
To reading iudgements; since, so generally,
Custome hath made euen th' ablest Agents erre
In these translations; all so much apply

Of Translation, and the naturall difference of Dialects, necessarily to be obserued in it.

Their paines and cunnings, word for word to render
Their patient Authors; when they may as well,
Make fish with fowle, Camels with Whales engender;
Or their tongues speech, in other mouths compell.
For, euen as different a production
Aske Greeke and English; since as they in sounds,
And letters, shunne one forme, and vnison;
So haue their sense, and elegancie bounds
In their distinguisht natures, and require
Onely a iudgement to make both consent,
In sense and elocution; and aspire
As well to reach the spirit that was spent
In his exanple; as with arte to pierce
His Grammar, and etymologie of words.

Ironice.

But, as great Clerkes, can write no English verse;
Because (alas! great Clerks) English affords
(Say they) no height, nor copie; a rude toung,
(Since tis their Natiue): but in Greeke or Latine
Their writs are rare; for thence true Poesie sprong:
Though them (Truth knowes) they haue but skil to chat-in,
Compar'd with that they might say in their owne;
Since thither th' others full soule cannot make
The ample transmigration to be showne
In Nature-louing Poesie: So the brake
That those Translators sticke in, that affect
Their word-for-word traductions (where they lose
The free grace of their naturall Dialect
And shame their Authors, with a forced Glose)
I laugh to see; and yet as much abhorre

The necessarie nearenesse of translation to the example.

More licence from the words, then may expresse
Their full compression, and make cleare the Author.
From whose truth, if you thinke my feet digresse,
Because I vse needfull Periphrases;
Reade Valla, Hessus, that in Latine Prose,
And Verse conuert him; reade the Messines,
That into Tuscan turns him; and the Glose
Graue Salel makes in French, as he translates:
Which (for th' aforesaide reasons) all must doo;
And see that my conuersion much abates
The licence they take, and more showes him too:
Whose right, not all those great learn'd men haue done
(In some maine parts) that were his Commentars:
But (as the illustration of the Sunne
Should be attempted by the erring starres)
They fail'd to search his deepe, and treasurous hart.
The cause was, since they wanted the fit key

The power of nature, aboue Art in Poesie.

Of Nature, in their down-right strength of Art;
With Poesie, to open Poesie.
Which in my Poeme of the mysteries
Reueal'd in Homer, I will clearely proue.
Till whose neere birth, suspend your Calumnies,
And farre-wide imputations of selfe loue.
Tis further from me, then the worst that reades;
Professing me the worst of all that wright:
Yet what, in following one, that brauely leades,
The worst may show, let this proofe hold the light.
But grant it cleere: yet hath detraction got
My blinde side, in the forme, my verse puts on;
Much like a dung hill Mastife, that dares not
Assault the man he barkes at; but the stone
He throwes at him, takes in his eager iawes,
And spoyles his teeth because they cannot spoyle.
The long verse hath by proofe receiu'd applause
Beyond each other number: and the foile,
That squint-ey'd Enuie takes, is censur'd plaine.
For, this long Poeme askes this length of verse,
Which I my selfe ingenuously maintaine
Too long, our shorter Authors to reherse.

Our English language, aboue all others, for Rhythmicall Poesie.

And, for our tongue, that still is so empayr'd.
By trauailing linguists; I can proue it cleare,
That no tongue hath the Muses vtterance heyr'd
For verse, and that sweet Musique to the eare
Strooke out of rime, so naturally as this;
Our Monosyllables, so kindly fall
And meete, opposde in rime, as they did kisse:
French and Italian, most immetricall;
Their many syllables, in harsh Collision,
Fall as they brake their necks; their bastard Rimes
Saluting as they iustl'd in transition,
And set out teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor times
Kept in their falles. And me thinkes, their long words
Shew in short verse, as in a narrow place,
Two opposites should meet, with two-hand swords
Vnweildily, without or vse or grace.
Thus hauing rid the rubs, and strow'd these flowers
In our thrice sacred Homers English way;
What rests to make him, yet more worthy yours?
To cite more prayse of him, were meere delay
To your glad searches, for what those men found,
That gaue his praise, past all, so high a place:
Whose vertues were so many, and so cround,
By all consents, Diuine; that not to grace,
Or adde increase to them, the world doth need
Another Homer; but euen to rehearse
And number them: they did so much exceed;
Men thought him not a man; but that his verse
Some meere celestiall nature did adorne.
And all may well conclude, it could not be,
That for the place where any man was borne,
So long, and mortally, could disagree
So many Nations, as for Homer striu'd,
Vnlesse his spurre in them, had bene diuine.
Then end their strife, and loue him (thus reuiu'd)
As borne in England: see him ouer-shine
All other-Countrie Poets; and trust this,
That whose-soeuer Muse dares vse her wing
When his Muse flies, she will be truss't by his;
And show as if a Bernacle should spring
Beneath an Eagle. In none since was seene
A soule so full of heauen as earth's in him.
O! if our moderne Poesie had beene
As louely as the Ladie he did lymne,
What barbarous worldling, groueling after gaine,
Could vse her louely parts, with such rude hate,
As now she suffers vnder euery swaine?
Since then tis nought but her abuse and Fate,
That thus empaires her; what is this to her
As she is reall? or in naturall right?
But since in true Religion men should erre
As much as Poesie, should th' abuse excite
The like contempt of her Diuinitie?
And that her truth, and right saint sacred Merites,
In most liues, breed but reuerence formally;
What wonder is't if Poesie inherits
Much lesse obseruance; being but Agent for her,
And singer of her lawes, that others say?
Forth then ye Mowles, sonnes of the earth abhorre her;
Keepe still on in the durty vulgar way,
Till durt receiue your soules, to which ye vow;
And with your poison'd spirits bewitch our thrifts.
Ye cannot so despise vs as we you.
Not one of you, aboue his Mowlehill lifts
His earthy Minde; but, as a sort of beasts,
Kept by their Guardians, neuer care to heare
Their manly voices; but when, in their fists,
They breathe wild whistles; and the beasts rude eare
Heares their Curres barking; then by heapes they flie,
Headlong together: So men, beastly giuen,
The manly soules voice (sacred Poesie,
Whose Hymnes the Angels euer sing in heauen)
Contemne, and heare not: but when brutish noises
(For Gaine, Lust, Honour, in litigious Prose)
Are bellow'd-out, and cracke the barbarous voices
Of Turkish Stentors; O! ye leane to those,
Like itching Horse, to blockes, or high May-poles;
And breake nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, All
In all your Documents; your Asinine soules
(Proud of their burthens) feele not how they gall.
But as an Asse, that in a field of weeds
Affects a thistle, and falles fiercely to it;
That pricks, and gals him; yet he feeds, and bleeds;
Forbeares a while, and licks; but cannot woo it
To leaue the sharpnes; when (to wreake his smart)
He beates it with his foote; then backward kickes,
Because the Thistle gald his forward part;
Nor leaues till all be eate, for all the prickes;
Then falles to others with as hote a strife;
And in that honourable warre doth waste
The tall heate of his stomacke, and his life:
So, in this world of weeds, you worldlings taste
Your most-lou'd dainties; with such warre, buy peace;
Hunger for torment; vertue kicke for vice;
Cares, for your states, do with your states increase:
And though ye dreame ye feast in Paradise,
Yet Reasons Day-light, shewes ye at your meate
Asses at Thistles, bleeding as ye eate.