University of Virginia Library

THE VRANIE, OR HEAVENLY MVSE.

Scarce was I yet in springtyme of my years,
When greening great for fame aboue my pears
Did make me lose my wonted chere and rest,
Essaying learned works with curious brest.
But as the Pilgrim, who for lack of light,
Cumd on the parting of two wayes at night,
He stayes assone, and in his mynde doeth cast,
What way to take while Moonlight yet doth last.
So I amongst the paths vpon that hill,
Where Phœbus crownes all verses euer still
Of endles praise, with Laurers always grene,
Did stay confusde, in doubt which way to mene.
I whyles essaide the Grece in Frenche to praise
Whyles in that toung I gaue a lusty glaise
For to descryue the Troian Kings of olde,
And them that Thebes and Mycens crowns did holde.
And whiles I had the storye of Fraunce elected,
Which to the Muses I should haue directed:
My holy furie with consent of nane.
Made frenche the Mein, and nowyse dutche the Sein.
Whiles thought I to set foorth with flattring pen:
The praise vntrewe of Kings and noble men,
And that I might both golde and honours haue
With courage basse I made my Muse a slaue.
And whyles I thought to sing the fickle boy
Of Cypris soft, and loues to-swete anoy,
To lofty sprits that are therewith made blynd,
To which discours my nature and age inclynd.
But whill I was in doubt what way to go,
With wind ambitious tossed to and fro:
A holy beuty did to mee appeare,
The Thundrers daughter seeming as she weare.
Her porte was Angellike with Angels face,
With comely shape and toung of heauenly grace:
Her nynevoced mouth resembled into sound
The daunce harmonious making heauen resound.
Her head was honorde with a costly crown,
Seuinfolde and rounde, to dyuers motions boun:
On euery folde I know not what doth glance,
Aboue our heads into a circuler dance.
The first it is of Lead, of Tin the nixt,

The seuin Planets

The third of Stele, the fourth of Golde vnmixt,
The fyfth is made of pale Electre light,
The sixt of Mercure, seuint of Siluer bright.
Her corps is couured with an Asure gowne,

Firmament

Where thousand fires ar sowne both vp and downe:

Fixed Starres.

Whilks with an arte, but arte, confusde in order,
Dois with their beames decore thereof the border.
Heir shynes the Charlewain, there the Harp giues light,
And heir the Seamans starres, and there Twinnis bright,
And heir the Ballance, there the Fishes twaine,
With thousand other fyres, that pas my braine.
I am said she, that learned VRANIE,
That to the Starres transports humanitie,
And maks men see and twiche with hands and ene
It that the heauenly court contempling bene.
I quint-essence the Poets soule so well
While he in high discours excede him sell,
Who by the eare the deafest doeth allure,
Reuiues the rocks, and stayes the floods for sure.
The tone is pleasant of my

Nyne Muses.

sisters deir:
Yet though their throts make heauen and earth admire,
They yeld to me no lesse in singing well,
Then Pye to Syraine, goose to Nightingell.
Take me for guyde, lyft vp to heauen thy wing
O Salust, Gods immortals honour sing:
And bending higher Dauids Lute in tone,
With courage seke yon endles crowne abone.
I no wais can, vnwet my cheekes, beholde
My sisters made by Frenchemen macquerels olde,
Whose mignarde writts, but faynd lamenting vaine,
And fayned teares and shameles tales retaine.
But weping neither can I see them spyte
Our heauenly verse, when they do nothing wryte,
But Princes flattry that ar tyrants rather
Then Nero, Commode, or Caligule ather.
But specially but sobbes I neuer shall
Se verse bestowde gainst him made verses all,
I can not see his proper soldiers ding
With his owne armes him that of all is King.
Mans eyes are blinded with Cimmerien night:
And haue he any good, beit neuer so light,
From heauen, by mediat moyens, he it reaches,
Bot only God the Delphiens songs vs teaches.
All art is learned by art, this art alone
It is a heauenly gift: no flesh nor bone
Can preif the honnie we from Pinde distill,
Except with holy fyre his breest we fill.
From that spring flowes, that men of special chose,
Consumde in learning, and perfyte in prose,
For to take verse in vane dois trauell take,
When as a prentise fairer works will make.
That made that Homer, who a songster bene,
Albeit a begger, lacking master, and ene,
Exceded in his verse both new and olde,
In singing Vliss and Achilles bolde.
That made that Naso noght could speak but verse,
That Dauid made my songs so sone reherse,
Of pastor Poët made. yea yongmen whyles
Vnknowing our art, yet by our art compyles.
Seke night and day Castalias waltring waas,
Climme day and night the twinrocks of Parnaas:
Be Homers skoller, and his, was borne in Ande,
The happie dwelling place of all our bande.
How oft thou lykes reid ouer booke efter booke,
The bookes of Troy, and of that towne which tooke
Her name from Alexander Monark then,
Exerce but cease thy toung and eke thy pen.
Yea, if to make good verse thou hes sic cure,
Joyne night to day, and day to night obscure,
Yet shall thou not the worthy frute reape so
Of all thy paines, if Pallas be thy fo.
For man from man must wholly parted be.
If with his age, his verse do well agree.
Amongst our hands, he must his witts resing,
A holy trance to highest heauen him bring.
For euen as humane fury maks the man,
Les then the man: So heauenly fury can
Make man pas man, and wander in a holy mist,
Vpon the fyrie heauen to walk at list.
Within that place the heauenly Poëts sought
Their learning, syne to vs heare downe it brought,
With verse that ought to Atropos no dewe,
Dame Naturs trunchmen, heauens interprets trewe.
For Poets right are lyke the pype alway,
Who full doth sound, and empty stayes to play:
Euen so their fury lasting, lasts their tone,
Their fury ceast, their Muse doth stay assone.
Sen verse did then in heauen first bud and blume,
If ye be heauenly, how dar ye presume
A verse prophane, and mocking for to sing
Gainst him that leads of starrie heauens the ring?
Will ye then so ingrately make your pen,
A slaue to sinne, and serue but fleshly men?
Shall still your brains be busied then to fill
With dreames, ô dreamers, euery booke and bill?
Shall Satan still be God for your behoue?
Still will ye riue the aire with cryes of loue?
And shall there neuer into your works appeare
The praise of God, resounding loud and cleare?
Suffisis it noght ye feele into your hairt
The Ciprian torche, vnles more malapairt
Then Lais commoun quean, ye blow abrod
But shame, athort the world, your shameles god?
Abusers, staikes it not to lurk in lust,
Without ye smit with charming nombers iust
The fickle maners of the reader slight,
In making him embrace, for day, the night?
The harmony of nomber tone and song,
That makes the verse so fair, it is so strong
Ouer vs, as hardest Catos it will moue,
With spreits aflought, and sweete transported loue.
For as into the wax the seals imprent
Is lyke a seale; right so the Poët gent,
Doeth graue so viue in vs his passions strange,
As maks the reader, halfe in author change.
For verses force is sic, that softly slydes
Throw secret poris, and in our sences bydes,
As makes them haue both good and euill imprented,
Which by the learned works is represented.
And therefore Platos common wealth did pack
None of these Poëts, who by verse did make
The goodmen euill, and the wicked worse,
Whose pleasaunt words betraied the publick corse.
Not those that in their songs good tearmes alwaise
Joyned with fair Thems: whyles thundring out the praise
Of God, iust Thundrer: whyles with holy speache,
Lyke Hermes did the way to strayers teache.
Your shameles rymes, are cause, ô Scrybes prophane,
That in the lyke opinion we remaine
With Juglers, buffons, and that foolish seames:
Yea les then them, the people of vs esteames.
For Clio ye put Thais vyle in vre,
For Helicon a bordell. Ye procure
By your lascivious speache, that fathers sage
Defends verse reading, to their yonger age.
But lightleing yon fleing godhead slight,
Who in Idolatrous breasts his darts hath pight.
If that ye would imploy your holy traunce,
To make a holy hallowde worke in Fraunce:
Then euery one wolde worthy scribes you call,
And holy seruants to the King of all.
Echone your verse for oracles wolde take,
And great men of their counsell wolde you make.
The verses knitting was found out and tryit,
For singing only holy mysteries by it
With greater grace. And efter that, were pend
Longtyme no verse, but for that only end.
Euen so my Dauid on the trembling strings
Of heauenly harps, Gods only praise he sings.
Euen so the leader of the Hebrevv hoste,
Gods praise did sing vpon the Redsea coste.
So Judith and Delbor in the soldiers throngs,
So Job and Jeremie, preast with woes and wrongs,
Did right descryue their ioyes, their woes and torts,
In variant verse of hundreth thousand sorts.
And therefore crafty Sathan, who can seame
An Angell of light, to witch vs in our dreame,
He causde his gods and preests of olde to speake
By nomber and measure, which they durst not breake.
So fond Phœmonoë vnder Apollos wing,
Her oracles Hexameter did sing:
With doubtsum talk she craftely begylde,
Not only Grece, but Spaine and Indes she sylde.
That olde voce serude in Dodon, spak in verse
As AEsculap did, and so did Ammon fearse,
So Sybills tolde in verse, what was to come:
The Preests did pray by nombers, all and some.
So Hesiod, Line, and he

Orpheus.

whose Lute they say,
Made rocks and forrests come to hear him play,
Durst well their heauenly secrets all discloes,
In learned verse, that softly slydes and goes.
O ye that wolde your browes with Laurel bind,
What larger feild I pray you can you find,
Then is his praise, who brydles heauens most cleare,
Maks mountaines tremble, and howest hells to feare?
That is a horne of plenty well repleat:
That is a storehouse riche, a learning seat.
An Ocean hudge, both lacking shore and ground,
Of heauenly eloquence a spring profound.
From subiects base, a base discours dois spring,
A lofty subiect of it selfe doeth bring
Graue words and weghtie, of it selfe diuine,
And makes the authors holy honour shine.
If ye wolde after ashes liue, bewaire,
To do lyke Erostrat, who brunt the faire
Ephesian temple, or him, to win a name,

Perillus

Who built of brasse, the crewell Calfe vntame.
Let not your art so rare then be defylde,
In singing Venus, and her fethred chylde:
For better it is without renowme to be,
Then be renowmde for vyle iniquitie.
Those nyne are Maides, that daunce vpon Parnaas:
Learned Pallas is a Virgin pure, lyke as

Daphne

That fair, whom waters changed on wattry banks
Into

Laurell

that tre still grene, your hair that hanks.
Then consecrat that eloquence most rair,
To sing the lofty miracles and fair
Of holy Scripture: and of your good ingyne,
Pour out, my frends, there your fift-essence fyne.
Let Christ both God and man your Twinrock be,
Whome on ye slepe: for that hors

Pegasus.

who did fle,
Speak of that

Holy ghost.

thryse great spreit, whose dow most white
Mote make your spring flow euer with delyte.
All excellent worke beare record euer shall,
Of trauellers in it, though their paines be small.
The Mausole tombe the names did eternise
Of Scope, Timotheus, Briace, and Artemise.
But Hirams holy help it war vnknowne
What he in building Izraels Temple had showne,
Without Gods Ark Beseleel Iewe had bene
In euerlasting silence buried clene.
Then, since the bewty of those works most rare
Hath after death made liue all them that ware
Their builders; though them selues with tyme be failde,
By spoils, by fyres, by warres, and tempests quailde.
I pray you think, how mekle fairer shall
Your happie name heirdowne be, when as all
Your holy verse, great God alone shall sing.
Since praise immortall commes of endles thing.
I know that ye will say, the auncient rables
Decores your songs, and that

Metamorphosis.

those dyuers fables,
Ilk bred of other, doeth your verses mak
More loued then storyes by the vulgar pack.
But where can there more wondrous things be found,
Then those of faith? ô fooles, what other ground,
With witnes mo, our reasons quyte improues,
Beats doun our pryde, that curious questions moues?
I had farr rather Babell tower forthsett,
Then the

Ossa, Pindus, and Olympus

thre Grecian hilles on others plett
To pull doun gods afraide, and in my moode,
Sing Noës rather then Deucalions floode.
I had far rather sing the suddaine change
Of Assurs monark, then of Arcas strange.
Of the

Nabuchadnezer.

Bethaniens holy second liuing,
Then Hippolitts with members glewde reuiuing.
To please the Reader is the ones whole cair,
The vther for to proffite mair and mair:
But only he of Laurell is conding,
Who wysely can with proffit, pleasure ming.
The fairest walking on the Sea coast bene,
And suirest swimming where the braes are grene:
So, wyse is he, who in his verse can haue
Skill mixt with pleasure, sports with doctrine graue.
In singing kepe this order showen you heir,
Then ye your self, in teaching men shall leir
The rule of liuing well, and happely shall
Your songs make, as your thems immortall all.
No more into those oweryere lyes delyte,
My freinds, cast of that insolent archer quyte,
Who only may the ydle harts surpryse:
Prophane no more the Muses with yon cryes.
But oh! in vaine, with crying am I horce:
For lo, where one, noght caring my songs force,
Goes lyke a crafty snaik, and stoppes his eare:
The other godles, mocks and will not heare.
Ane other at my schoole abydes a space,
While charming world withdrawe him from that place:
So that discours, that maks good men reiose,
At one eare enters, and at the other goes.
Alas, I se not one vnvaill his ene
From Venus vaill and gal prophane, that bene
To golden honnied verse, the only harme
Although our France with lofty sprits doth swarme.
But thou my deir one, whome the holy Nyne,
Who yearly drinks Pegasis fountaine fyne,
The great gods holy songster had receiued,
Yea, euen before thy mother the conceiued.
Albeit this subiect seame a barren ground,
With quickest spreits left ley, as they it found,
Irk not for that heirefter of thy paine,
Thy glore by rairnes greater shall remaine.
O Salust, lose not heart, though pale Inuye
Bark at thy praise increasing to the skye,
Feare not that she tread vnder foote thy verse
As if they were vnworthie to reherse.
This monster honnors-hurt is lyke the curr,
That barks at strangers comming to the durr,
But sparing alwaies those are to him knowin,
To them most gentle, to the others throwin.
This monster als is like a rauing cloude,
Which threatnes alwayis kendling Vulcan loude.
To smore and drowne him with her powring raine,
Yet force of fyre repellis her power againe.
Then follow furth, my sonne, that way vnfeard,
Of them whom in fre heauens gift hath appeard.
And heare I sweare, thou shortly shall resaue
Some noble rank among good spreits and graue.
This heauenly Muse by such discourses fair,
Who in her Virgin hand a riche crowne bair:
So drew to her my heart, so farr transported,
And with swete grace so swetely she exhorted:
As since that loue into my braines did brew,
And since that only wind my shipsailles blew,
I thought me blest, if I might only clame
To touche that crown, though not to weare the same.