Commendatory poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Odcombe:
For, he hard Head (and hard, sith like a Whetstone
It giues wits edge, and drawes them too like Ietstone)
Is Caput mundi for a world of schoole-tricks,
And is not ignorant in the learned'st-tricks.
H' hath seene much more then much, I assure yee,
And will see New-Troy, Bethlem, and Old-Iurie:
Meane while (to giue a Taste of his first trauell,
With streames of Rhetoricke that get Golden-grauell)
He tels how he to Venice once did wander;
From whence he came

The word (more) for the reason of excellency: and Gander for the Rimes necessity.

more witty then a Gander:
Whereby he makes relations of such wonders,
That Truth therein doth lighten, while Art thunders.
All Tongues fled to him that at Babell swerued,
Lest they for want of warme Mouthes might haue sterued:
Where they doe reuell in such Passing-measure,
(Especially the Greeke wherein's his pleasure)
That (Iouially) so Greeke, he takes the

He pleasantly preserues it in pristine purity.

guard of
That hee's the merriest Greeke that ere was heard of:
For, he as t'were his Mother's Twittle-twattle
(That's Mother-tongue) the Greeke can prittle prattle.
Nay, of that Tongue he so hath got the Body,
That he sports with it at Ruffe, Gleeke, or

Games at Cards, whereby is meant all manner of sports.

Noddy.

For his Inuention, in his Bookes rare

The Frontispice grauen in brasse.

Brass-face
Is seene the glory of it, that doth passe

Excels the grace of all other forefronts or Titlepages.

Grace.
The

The first shewes how he sailed out of England in a ship.

first doth shew how in a shippe he sailed,
When out of England he (go-ing) tra-uailed:
For, as he notes him selfe (and right well noteth)
No man goes out of England but he boateth:
Where he (halfe ore board) spralleth like a Paddocke;
And spues into a

Whale by the figure Hyperbole, or rather Meiosis.

Whale's mouth called a Haddocke.
Right o're gainst it, there is seene

The second shewes his ouerworne apparrell in his trauell.

th'Apparrell
Which he did weare when he found out the Barrell
Of Heydelberg: shoes, stockings, hose, and dublet,
With so much of his blood as fils a goblet.
Dropping in Creepers from his Trauels Trophie;
Lice Ile not stile them, lest you should cry, ô fie.
But, that which is most wondrous to consider
Is, one so leane so long, should be their feeder:
And that the Clothes which he went out withall, too
Should serue him and the Lice (which were not small) too
Till his returne, with but a little patching,
When's Rags (like catch-polles) greedy were in catching:
So, like an Israelite in Desert wast-land,
His

His clothes wch like weeds were now good for nothing but to be throwne away.

Weedes held out till he had fully trac't-land:
And for a Monument to After-coommers
Their Picture shall continue (though Time

Canker or rust the Brasse whereon it is grauen.

scummers
Vpon th'Effigie to make Eyes delighted
With that which by no Art can be more sprighted;
And shew the maruell of this

Because they hold out (as it were) supernaturally.

Metaphysicke,
That would haue fil'd some Trau'ller with the

Going so bare.

Tyssicke.
And so t'would him haue done, but that his Senses:
Were

Desire of glory made his mind not feele what his body felt.

senslesse in pursuit of Excellences.

Then (from that Trophey to descend a little)
Yee see when he his Gorge with

The third shewes how he fed vpon the Boores grapes without leaue.

Grapes did vittle,
Was out-rag'd by a Boore, who did abhorre it,
Till Tullies golden sentences paid for it
Disburs'd by Coryats Tongue; which so did trolle it
That Cicero him selfe could not controlle it:
Which fill'd the Boore with wonder to the Wozen,
That made him vomit sweet wordes by the dozen
In Toms deare praise; while he most like a Wag-with
Tooke of his Grapes as much as he could wag-with.

Then yee descend, where he sits in a

The fourth shewes his suruayng of Venice in a Gondola.

Gondolow
With Egs throwne at him by a wanton Room-be-low;
Who lookes so masculine as shee were some Boy,
Playing the pleasant Tomboy with her Tom-boy.
Within which Egs was sweetest water powred,
That he to her might thereby be allured:
Which shewes the manner how he went in Venice,
When as hee tooke surueigh of that strange Sea-peece.

Then doe yee fall vpon a goodly

The fifth, a goodly woman representing Italie.

Woman,
Which, for her stature, you would take for some man
Drest in th'Italian fashion, and doth stand for
Faire Italie it selfe, and so is scand for:
Who on the one side serues for a supporter
Of that long

An Ouall round wherein hee is pictured to the wast.

Round, wherein he is made shorter

By halfe (at least) then his length naturall,
And lookes as if he danc'd a Caterbrall;
With Ruffe about his necke set on so finely,
That you would sweare he nothing doth supinely.

On th'other side the Round, stands one as tall too,
Drest like a French-fem, in a farthingall too,
Vpholding (as the other did) the Rundle;
Whose clothes, about the Bumme, tuckt like a bundle,
Doe make her stand for France; and so shee may well,
For she hath Stuffe to make her Doo and say well.

Then, ô ascend, before your last ascending,
And looke on that that's farre aboue commending;
A dainty

The sixth a woman ore his head with the tunne of Heydelberg on hirs, casting vpon him, representing Germanie.

Dame (not dainty of her vomit)
Powres downe vpon him (like a blazing-commet)
The streame of her aboundance from her Gullet,
And hits him on the

A familiar name for the head.

Noddle, like a Bullet;
From whence it glanceth all those Fruits to water
That in his way he gather'd like a Cater;
Which Damsell, with her free ebriety,
Doth lie, or sit, or stand for Germany.
Vpon her head shee weares (beneath it smirking)
Of Heydelbergs the fore-remembred

By the figure Tapinosis.

Firkin.
This, this is it that's Creame of all Inuention,
And farre surmounts the milke of wits intention.

Then vaile your Eye againe that is aspiring,
And see the

The seuenth the horse he sometimes vsed in his trauell.

Horse and Cart he had for tyring.
On one side stands (below) an Horse, or Hobby
Or Hobby-horse (I mean no Hawlke cal'd Hobby)
Sadled and bridled ready for his trauell,
When he his owne feet spurgald had with grauell:

On th'other side the

The eight, the Picardicall Cart he trauelled in.

Picardinian Chariot
Which some call Cart (that

That is, conueyed him from place to place.

carted wandring Coryat)
Whence, if we looke vp, first our eye is meeting.
How Coryate from the

The ninth shewes how he fled from the Iew lest he should have circumcised him.

Iew is Gentilly fleeting,
Lest if he staid he should be made a Præpuce:
And so of men, the only womans Refuse.

From whence looke vp, and next shall your beholders
See Coryate carryed on the Atlas sholders
Of such strong

The tenth, shewes how he was carryed in a chaire ouer or on the Alpes.

Porters as doe helpe men ouer
The Alpes, within a Chaire without a couer:
All which (exprest so farre past wits regality)
Doe shew the pow'r of Coryats singularity.

Then, on the top, but yet without the Vinet,
He lyeth at the heeles of many a

The eleuēth shewes how he lay on litter at the horse heels in the stable of some Inne.

Ginnet
As then in stable stoode on points of litter,
To shew his lodging was as hard as bitter:
For, both together he (most senslesse) feeles there,
And so on litter lyes he by the

Horse heeles.

heeles there.

Right or'e against these proude braue Spanish stallions
Is seene how he doth begge of Theeues

The twelfth and last, shewes how he begg'd of Italian Theeues, lest they should haue robb'd him.

Italians,
With cap in hand, and lowly genuflexion,
Lest they should sincke him till the Resurrection:
So, shun'd the fatall handes of the Banditie
With wit that lackt not all of most almightie.

Hold Muse, no more, vnlesse thou wilt be martyr'd
Within his world of fame that ne're was quarterd:
For, if thou seek'st in numbers to containe it,
T'will make thy browes sweate, and thy nose to raine it.
But though we cannot in this Frontispice
Number thy Stations, yet may we count-thy-lice;
Which (Tom) from one that (roauing) had no refuge,
Drop downe, to make the Glories flood a Delvge.
Within which Flood my Muse (like a Diudapper,
In Fame's wide mouth wagging my Pen, her clapper)
Is so ore-whelm'd, that as shee striues for more breath,
The Flood engulphes her, and her wordes deuoureth.
So fare well Tom (shee saies) great Natures wonder,
I lye thy fame a thouzand fathoms vnder:
For, it preuailes aboue the Alpes (high Mountaines!)
But when it ebbes, Ile spring in Castall Fountaines.
All to bewet the earth with streames of praises
Running to none but thee in fluent Phrases;
Vntill I make a second Inundation,
To wash thy purest fames

Alluding to that loue which men bore to women in the old world, sith like loue our Author beares to men; for whose loue and commodity he hath put himselfe to this cost and pains.

Coinquination
And make it fit for finall

Burning in flames of glory and wonder, as in the iudgement-day.

Conflagration;
So to preuent fell Enuies indignation.

Explicit Ioannes Dauis Herefordiensis.

II.—JOSHUA SYLVESTER.

OF THE WORK, AUTHOUR, AND TRANSLATOR.

Lo here a Monument admir'd of all
That weigh the compass, weight, and height of it;
O'r-topping Envie's clouds, and ever shall
Sith built by deepest Art, and highest Wit.

The Base that bears it, is the Word that stands
True Ground of highest glorie, truth, and grace:
The Building rear'd by two rare heads and hands
(Divinely holp) to glorifie that Base.

Here French and English, joyne in friendly fight
(On even Ground) to prove their utmost power;
Who shew such equall Skill, and equall Might,
That hard it is to say who's conqueror.

But, English bound to foot it like the French
And offer nought, but what shall like her foe,
It is as glorious seld to take a Wrench,
As being free, to give an overthrow.

If French to English were so strictly bound,
It would but passing lamely strive with it;
And soon be forc't to lose both grace and ground,
Although they strave with equall Skill and Wit.

Besides, all Prose is easier to translate
Then Verse; and easier low, then lofty Lines:
Then, these Lines, reaching to the top of State
Are hard'st of all: yet none of all declines.

O faire Translation then, with smoothéd face,
Goe forth to' allure Time's Turns, to turn Thee o'r:
So shall they in thy folds unfold thy grace;
And grace thee with Fame's glory more and more.

Ovid me.

Hee, that churn'd the Cream of Poetry,
To honied Butter, that the Muses feeds,

Divinéd truly, it should never die;
Then, what shall This, that far the same exceeds?

Hee labour'd Lines, wch though they doe endure
All turns of Time, yet was their stuf profane:
But these are drawn of Stuf more heav'nly pure,
That most shall shine; when those are in the wane.

Hee, though his Braines (profanely) were divine,
And glorious Monuments of art compos'd,
Was yet exil'd for many a looser Line,
That made them wantons, chastely else dispos'd:

But, thou (clear Bartas, his dear Sylvester,
Whose Lines do lead to Vertues only gaine,
And with sweet Poesies strew'st the way to her)
How should the World remunerate thy paine?

And, if from heart's aboundance tongues do speak;
And what we most affect, wee most doe minde:
It argues, thou this Argument didst seek;
Sith, in thy Soule before, thou didst it finde.

So, Bartas was but Mid-wife to thy Muse,
With greater ease to utter her Conceits;
For whose dear birth, thou didst all ease refuse,
World's-weale, and (being a Merchant) thy Receits.

This pain so pleas'd thy labouring Thoughts, that thou
Forsook'st the Sea, and took'st thee to the Soile,
Where (from thy royall Trade,) thou fell'st to plow
Art's furrows with thy Pen, that yeeld but toyl.

This stole thee from thy selfe, thy selfe to finde
In sacred Raptures on the Muses' Hill:
And, went'st out of thy Body with thy Minde,
More freely so, to use thy Wit and Will.

And (O!) how haplesse had wee Britains been
(Sith here is stor'd such sweet Soule-ravishments)
Hadst thou not made them to us clearly seen:
Who give thee for it praising Discontents?

If so great Art and Grace, finde nought but fame
Of famous Men for grace; the Presse shall be
Prest but for Vice's Service (Source of shame).
So Times to come, in Print our shame shall see.

But O! be't far from this so famous Isle
For Armes and Learning, either to neglect;
Sith it doth grace and glorie quite exile,
And is the cause of many a bad effect.

O terrene Gods, as yee to State aspire,
Lift Learning up with you; especially
If matcht with Wisedome, and divine desire:
So shall yee twice be like the Deity.

And, weigh what pow'r the Pens of such possesse
(Of such; for others will but gild your Crimes)
Their Pens eternise can your worthinesse:
And make yee glorious, past succeeding Times.

But you doe justly to neglect and scorn
The curséd crue, that doe the Muse abuse:
For, they your praises to dispraises turn;
As Vice, in praising Vertue's grace, doth use.

Their wine-driv'n brains, involv'd in follie's cloud,
Fly here, and there (and where not?) with a trice:
And, though both beggars base, yet passing proud;
Constant in nothing but inconstant Vice:

Making loose lines (forsooth) their Scala Cœli,
A Taverne for a Temple to adore;
Their onely god, their guts, their beastly Belly,
To whom they offer all their slender Store.

The Lands of such, are odious like their Lives:
They (Pitch) pollute what-ere they doe but touch;
Whose glory to the foulest shame arrives:
Then, well you fence your fame to keep off such.

But they whose lives, and lauds, and lines are Source
Of Moral vertue, running by each stone
(Men high, and hard, that let them in their Course)
To Seas of glory, like clear Helicon;

O! these ye should support, and still receive
Into the Ocean of your bound-lesse love:
For these (like truest Friends) will take, and give
No more but what true Vertue shall approve.

If these should pine away through your neglect,
Your memories shall dye, or live with shame;
Sith such a Muse is the chiefe Architect,
To reare, from Earth to Heav'n, a lasting Name.

Achilles' fame, with him, had been interr'd,
Had Homer's lines not ty'd it to the Stars:
And, of Æneas wee had never heard,
Had Virgil's Strains not been his Trumpeters.

One of the Nine had bin our Warwick's Guy,
(The Nine, whose worth all Times so much commend;)
And so disrankt great Bullen's Godfery
Had hee but had a Tasso for his friend.

Laura had ne're so greenly growne above
Her Peers, as now she doth, to after-times,
Had she not had a Petrarch to her Love;
Which made her mount, with Nectar-dropping Rimes.

No, no: ye cannot but out-live your Fame,
If ye uphold not Fame's best Notaries:
If these ye scorne, your glory is but game;
For, when ye die, in game your glory dies.

And, though blest Peace hath turn'd our Spears to spades,
Let it not turn our pens to ploughs, or worse;
By Learning some should live as some by Trades,
In blesséd States, that would incurre no curse.

Where Vertue is not rais'd, and Vice supprest,
There all to Vice will run; and so to wrack:
For, there the worst shall Lord it ore the best;
And where that is, all goes to utter sack.

Reward, and Punishment (like Armes of Steel)
Doe still uphold each King-upholding State:
For, neither wants, but it begins to reel;
But, both imploy'd, stands sure in spight of Hate.

Then may thy Hopes, wing'd by thy vertuous Muse,
Dear Sylvester, expect some cherishment,
In this blest State; that still those Armes will use,
To stay her Grace, and grace her Government:
But, if thy paines acquire but pure renowne,
Thou art Christ's Image, crost for Glorious crown.

Beneficium dando accipit, qui digno dedit.

The unfained lover of thine Art, honesty, and vertue, John Davies of Hereford.

FINIS.