A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight Originally written in the Greeke Tongue, by an unknowne Author. Afterwards Translated into Spanish; after that, for the Excellency thereof, into the French Tongue by N. H. next by B. M. into the Thuscan, and now turn'd into English Verse by L. L. [i.e. Leonard Lawrence] a well-wisher to the Muses |
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The Translator tenders his respect to all ingenious Poets, who, he hopes
will cherish these his Infant Verses, as being the first that hee ever Writ. |
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 | A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight |  |
The Translator tenders his respect to all ingenious Poets, who, he hopes will cherish these his Infant Verses, as being the first that hee ever Writ.
I will not venture to usurpe or claimeThe sacred Title of a Poets name,
Or dare to challenge ought that doth belong
Unto their merits, least their worths I wrong.
The Worlds applausive praise I will resigne
To Phœbus sonnes, their Raptures are Divine,
Sublime transcendent; and their Candor's such,
That I can but the superficies touch
Of their perfections: no, I have no skill
To sound their praises, or to guide my quill:
To portraict forth th'Idea of their Fame,
Vnlesse by writing of a Poets name;
Yet that's enough; for sweete-ton'd Poesie
Makes men immortall, and doth Deifie
Them by their actions: what was ever writ
By a true Poet, Fame eterniz'd it;
Witnesse an Homer, or brave Horace name,
Propertius, Virgil, or sweete Ovids fame:
Or looke but backe to these our Moderne times,
Spencer, though dead, surviveth by his rimes;
Are eternized by their famous Verse;
Unto whose worths, Time-during Fame hath rais'd
Trophies of Honour, to their lasting praise.
Oh that I could but shew, or else expresse
How much I honour the ingenuousnesse
Of great Apollo's darlings, who surpasse
So farre the Vulgar, as bright Diamonds glasse!
My Lines are framed in a Leaden mould,
Their Straines composed of the purest gold;
Whose high-tun'd words, like precious Jems adorne
The Readers eare, too costly to be worne
By every Vulgar Criticke, who despight
All sence or reason, be it wrong or right,
Will spit the venome of their malice, and
Censure mens Labours, though not understand:
But's to no purpose; say they what they will,
Poets are Poets, they but Coxecombes still.
| A Small Treatise betwixt Arnalte and Lucenda Entituled The Evill-intreated Lover, Or The Melancholy Knight | |