Du Bartas His Divine Weekes And Workes with A Compleate Collectio[n] of all the other most delight-full Workes: Translated and written by yt famous Philomusus: Iosvah Sylvester |
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To M. Iosvah Sylvester, of his Bartas Metaphrased.
I dare confess; of Muses, more than nine,Nor list, nor can I envy none but thine.
Shee, drencht alone in Sion's sacred Spring,
Her Makers praise hath sweetly chose to sing,
And reacheth neerest th'Angels notes aboue;
Nor lists to sing or Tales, or Warres or Loue.
One while I finde her, in her nimble flight,
Cutting the brazen spheares of heav'n bright:
Thence, straight she gudes before I be aware,
Through the three regions of the liquid ayre:
Thence, rushing down, through Nature's Closet-dore,
Sixe ransacks all her Grandame's secret store;
And diving to the darkness of the Deep,
Sees there what wealth the waues in prison keep:
And what she sees above, belowe, between,
Shee showes and sings to others eares and eyne.
T'is true thy Muse another's steps doth press:
The more's her paine, nor is her praise the less.
Freedom gives scope, vnto the roving thought;
Which, by restraint, is curb'd. Who wonders ought,
That feet, vnfettred, walken farre, or fast?
Which pent with chains, mote want their wonted haste.
Thou follow'st Bartasses diviner streine;
And singst his numbers in his native veine.
Bartas was som French Angell, girt with Bayes:
And thou a Bartas art in English Layes.
Whether is more? Me seems (the sooth to say'n)
One Bartas speakes in Tongues, in Nations, twayn.
Ios. Hall.
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