The Second Day of the First Weeke of the most excellent, learned, and diuine Poet, William, Lord Bartas. Done out of French into English Heroicall verse by Thomas Winter |
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To the Translator.
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 | The Second Day of the First Weeke |  |
To the Translator.
Heauen, Labour, Art, all ioyntly did conspire
To crowne thy verse with neuer-fading bayes:
First Gods sweete breath did teach thy Muse t'aspire
To caroll out Lord Bartas heauenly layes.
To crowne thy verse with neuer-fading bayes:
First Gods sweete breath did teach thy Muse t'aspire
To caroll out Lord Bartas heauenly layes.
Then thy high thoughts to second this rare choise,
Droue forth with matchlesse paines thy great intent:
And last to sing Gods notes with Angels voice,
Art did consort to make a full concent.
Droue forth with matchlesse paines thy great intent:
And last to sing Gods notes with Angels voice,
Art did consort to make a full concent.
Great choise, great paines, great art, all good, all great,
All three thy litle booke do greatly praise:
Why striue I then in Honours chaire to seate
Thy Muse, which of it selfe, it selfe can raise?
All three thy litle booke do greatly praise:
Why striue I then in Honours chaire to seate
Thy Muse, which of it selfe, it selfe can raise?
O then braue impe of Phœbus still pursue
Thy great deseigne, aduance thy Poetrie:
Let enuious France by reading find this true,
That Bartas scornes not our rich liuerie.
Thy great deseigne, aduance thy Poetrie:
Let enuious France by reading find this true,
That Bartas scornes not our rich liuerie.
Then shall the French an English wonder see,
How Winter yeelds a spring of Poesie.
How Winter yeelds a spring of Poesie.
Douglas Castillion.
| The Second Day of the First Weeke | |