University of Virginia Library

The Authour here declareth the cause why hee wrote these Histories, and forewent the translation of the learned Poet Lucan.

I undertooke Dan Lucans verse,
and caught hys borne in hand,
To sound out Cæsars blooddy broiles
and Pompeis puisant bande:
I meant to paint the haughtie hate
of those two marshall men,
And had in purpose ciuill swords
of rufull Rome to pen:
Of rufull Rome to penne the plagues
when Cæsar sought to raigne,
And Pompey pitying Countries spoyle,
would doe him downe againe.
I had begonne that hard attempt,
to turne that fertile soyle.
My bullocks were alreadie yokte,
and flatly fell to toyle.
Me thought they laboured meetlie well,
Tyll on a certaine night:
I gazde so long vpon my booke
in bed by candle light.
Till heauy sleep full slilie came
and muffled so mine eye,
That I was forst with quill in hand
in slumber downe to lie.
To whom within a while appeard
Melpomene, the Muse,
That to intreat of warlike wights,
and dreadfull armes doth vse.
Who me beheld with graue regard,
and countnance fraught with feare:
And thus the gastly Goddesse spake,
her wordes in minde I beare.
And art thou woxe so wilfull, as
thou seemest to outward eye?
Darste thou presume with ymped quilles
so prowde a pitch to flie?
Remember how fonde Phæton farde,
that vndertooke to guide:
Apollos charge, by meane of which
that wilfull wanton dide.
Eare thou doe wade so farre, reuoke
to minde to bedlam boy,
That in his forged wings of waxe
reposed too great a ioy:
And soard so neare the scorching blaze
of burning Phœbus brande,
As feathers failde, and be fell short
of what he tooke in hand.
In this thy hauty heart thou shewst,
too playne thy pryde appeares,
How durst thou deale in field affaires?
leaue off, vnyoke thy Steeres.
Let loftie Lucans verse alone,
a deed of deepe deuise.
A stately stile, a peerelesse pen,
a worke of weightie pryce.
More meete for noble Buckhurst braine,
where Pallas built her bowre,
Of purpose there to lodge her selfe,
and shew her princely powre.
His swelling vaine would better blase,
those Royall Romane peeres:
Than anyone in Brutus land,
that liude these many yeeres.
And yet within that little Isle
of golden wittes is store,
Great change and choise of learned ymps
as euer was of yore.
I none dislike, I fancie some,
but yet of all the rest.
Sance enuie, let my verdite passe,
Lord Buckurst is the best.
Wee all that Ladie Muses are,
Who be in nuber nine:
With one accord did blesse this babe,
each said, This ympe is mine.
Each one of vs, at time of birth,
with Iuno were in place:
And each vpon this tender childe,
bestowd her gift of grace.
My selfe amonge the moe alowde
him Poets praised skill,
And to commend his gallant verse.
I gaue him wordes at will.
Minerua luld him on her lappe,
and let him many a kisse:
As who would say when all is done,
they all shall yeeld to this:
This matter were more meet for him,
and farre vnfit for thee:
My sister Clio, with thy kinde,
doth best of all agree.
Shee deals in case of liking loue.
her lute is set but lowe.
And thou werte wonte in such deuise,
thine humour to bestow,
As when thou toldest the Shepheards tale,
that Mantuan erst had pend:
And turndst those letters into verse,
that louing Dames did send
Vnto their lingring mates that fought
at sacke and siege of Troy:
And as thou didst in the writing of
thy songs of sugred ioy.
Mancynus vertues fitter ore,
for thee to take in hande,
Than glitering gleaues, and weakfull warres,
that all on slaughter stand
The Giants proud, aspiring pompe
when they so fondly strove,
And hopde with helpe of heaped hills
to conquere mightie Ioue,
Is not for euery wit to wield,
the weight too heauy weare.
For eury Poet that hath wrote
in auncient age to beare:
Unless that Lucan Virgill, or
the great renowmed Greeke
Would vndertake, those boysteous broiles,
the rest are all to seeke,
Each slender ship that heares a saile,
and flittes in quiet flood:
Is not to brooke the byllowe, when
the rooryng seas be wood.
Alcydes slippers are too wide
for euery wretch to weare
Not euery childe can Atlas charge,
vpon hys shoulders beare.
Not euery dick that dares to drawe
a sworde, is Hectors peere,
Not euery woodman that doth shoote
hath skill to chose his Deere
No beast can match the lions might
his force is ouer fell:
Though euery little starre doe shine,
yet doth the Sunne excell.
Not euery bryer, or tender twigge,
is equall to the Pyne,
Nor euery Prelate that can preache,
is thought a deepe deuine.
Not euery fish that flittes amyd
the floud with feeble finne,
Is fellowe to the Delphine swifte,
when he doth once beginne.
The peeuishe puttocke may not preace
in place where Eagles are.
For why their kingly might exceedes,
their puissance passeth farre.
All which I speake to let thee wyte,
that though thou haue some skill,
Yet hast thou not sufficient stuffe
this Authors loome to fill.
Too slender is thy feeble twiste,
thy webbe is all too weake:
Before thy worke be halfe dispatchte,
no doubte thy warpe will breake.
Wherefore renounce thy rash deuice,
thy yeelding force I knowe:
And none so well as I can iudge,
the bente of Lucans bowe.
Thinke of the toade in Æsops tale,
that sought to matche the Bull,
For highnesse, and did burst at length,
his bowels were so full,
So thou, vnlesse thou take good heede,
translating Lucans warre,
Shalt spoyle thy Lute, & stroy thy strings,
in straining them too farre.
I heere aduise and eke commaunde
that thou no farther goe:
Laye dawne thy Lyre obey my will,
for sure it shall be so.
With that my drousie slumber fledde,
my senses came againe:
And I that earst was drownde in dreames,
behelde the Goddes playne,
Whose frouning phrase & spitefull speach
had daunted so my witte,
As for my life I wilte not howe.
to shape an aunswere fitte.
Each worde (me thought) did wound me so,
eache looke did lurche my harte:
Eache sentence bredde my sorrowes such,
eache lyne was like a darte.
But yet at laste with manly minde,
and mouth vnfraught of feare,
Unto this loftie learned Muse,
these wordes I vttred there:
O noble Impe, and daughter deare
to mightie Ioue his grace:
It much relieues my weakened wittes
to see thy heauenly face.
For which ten thousand thanks I yelde
thee heere with bended knee:
And counte my selfe the blessedst man
aliue, thine eyes to see.
Thy presence makes me to presume,
thou holdst me verie deare:
But (out alas) thy wordes were such
as I was lothe to heare.
Controlements came frō haughtie breast,
for that I vndertooke
With English quill to turne the verse
of learned Lucans booke.
And shall I (Lady) be unflyted
to take in hande a deed,
By which vnto my natiue soyle
aduantage may succeed
By which the ciuill swordes of Rome
and mischiefes done thereby,
May be a myrrour vnto vs,
the like mishappes to flie?
I yeelde my brayne too barraine farre,
my verses all too vyle,
My pen too playne, with metre meete
to furnish Lucans style:
Whose deepe deuise, whose filed phrase,
and Poets peerelesse pen,
Would cloye the cunningst head in court,
and tyre the lustiest men.
But yet sith none of greater skill,
and ryper witte would write
Of Cæsar and Pompeius warres,
a woorke of rare delight:
I thought it good as well to passe
the idle time away,
As to the worlde to set to vewe
howe discorde breedes decay:
To turne this princely Poets verse,
that simple men might see
Of Ciuill broyles and breach at home,
how great the mischeiues bee.
But sith it standes not with your wills
who lady Muses are,
That one so dull as I, should deale
in case concerning warre:
I am content to plie vnto
your pleasures out of hande,
It bootes me not against the will
of heauenly states to stande.
Yet being that my present plight
is stufte with all anoye,
And late mishaps haue me bereft
my rimes of roisting ioye:
Syth churlish fortune clouded hath
my glee, with mantell blacke,
Of foule mischaunce, wherby my barke
was like to bide the wracke:
(Good ladie) giue me leaue to write
some heauy sounding verse,
That by the vewe thereof, my harmes
the readers heart may perse.
With that the Goddesse gaue a becke,
and yeelded my request,
And vanisht streight without offence,
and licenste me to reste.
Then I to reading Boccas fell,
and sundrie other moe
Italian Authours, where I found
great stoare of states in woe,
And sundrie sortes of wretched wights:
some slayne by cruell foes,
And other some that through desire
and Loue their lyues did lose:
Some Tyrant thirsting after bloud,
themselues were fowly slayne:
And some did sterue in endlesse woes,
and pynde with bitter payne.
Which gaue me matter fitte to write:
and herevpon it grewe
That I this Tragicall deuise,
haue sette to open viewe.
Accept my paynes, allow me thankes,
if I deserue the same,
If not, yet lette not meaning well
be payde with checke and blame.
For I am he that buylde the bowre,
I hewe the hardened stone,
And thou art owner of the house,
the paine is mine alone.
I burne the bee, I holde the hyue,
the Sommer toyle is myne:
And all bicause when winter commes,
the honie may be thine.
I frame the foyle, I graue the golde,
I fashion vp the ring,
And thou the iewell shalt enioye,
which I to shape doe bring.
Adieu (good Reader) gaze thy fill,
if aught thine eyes delight:
For thee I tooke the woorke in hande,
this booke is thine of right.