To Guy de Faur, Lord of Pibrac; W. Salustius du
Bartas.
I hate
those Satyrs, that the best still bite:
I hate the shameless Pens that sooth the vicious:
For, these be flatterers, and those malicious:
But, wise is hee can hit the Mean aright.
I pinch not oft, nor doo I often praise:
Yet, must I needs praise the praise-worthy still:
I cannot hold my free and forward quill
From those whom Heauen adorns with speciall rayes.
Now, all that God doth by retail bestowe
On perfect'st men, to thee in grosse he giues:
Therefore my Muse thy praise so often driues,
For duties sake, but not to slatter so.
Our Age's wonder! when thy tongue (refin'd
By vse and Art) in our King's name dilates,
With Counsails, Germane or furr'd Polish States,
The sweet-tongu'd Cyneas thou doost make vs minde.
In Priuy counsell, when our miseries
Thou doost be-moan, most Nestor-like thou art:
And when, in Paris Parliament, thy part
Of Lawes thou Plead'st, thou seem'st to Scævolize.
Thy Latin Prose dooth match smooth Salusts stile:
And when thy Pen distils the Nectar sweet
Of Helicon (where all the Muses meet)
Me thinks I read sweet Virgil all the while.
In honor of these gifts, this gift I bring,
Small for my paines, great for the Argument:
But, if the Heav'ns had richer treasure lent,
Thy New-yeers-gift should be som better thing.
