Pocula Castalia :: :: University of Virginia Library

Ile blow the Mount to Atomes, but i'l climbe
Its steep fork'd Top, and triumph over Time.
How shal I pluck from's iron teeth my Name,
That Bards unborne yet, may embalme't with fame
To last for aye? This Phoebus meant should be
A chiefe effect of my nativity.
Ne'r did Japetus son to wonder frame
His manly Statue, and inspire't with flame
Filch'd from Iove's Harth, meaning he should ascend
The Stage, there Scrape a Leg, and so descend.
For if a man should be brought forth, and cry,
And score a score of Lusters up, then Die,

And steale into his grave with no more noise
Than a blacke Ribband makes, or branch of Bayes,
And there lie mouldring under a silent stone
That courts no eyes to read th'Inscription
He were like Glow-wormes that creep out i'th' dark
At th'bottom of the Hedge, whilst no eyes mark,
If any difference 'twixt them there be
The Wormes skin shines more than his memory.
Since tis decreed then, by Impartiall Fate
Wee all must be reduced soone, or late
To our first Principle, Dust, Its my intent
To reare my selfe a death-lesse Monument:
Not that I doe desire to shrowd my bones
The labour of an Age in piled stones,
Or that my worthlesse Ashes should be hid
Under a skie-invading Pyramid.
For we of Delphos may secure our Fames
By inscribing in Times brazen leaves our names.
It is enough that wee in each mouth raise
A speaking Statue to our long-liv'd praise.

Rouze then Invention, and call Judgement in,
I know my taske, teach me how to begin
And perfect this great work. But first of all
Of what perennious materiall
Shall I erect my Monument, to last
Strong as the Poles? sweet as the fragrant East?
Cleer and perspicuous as noones bright eye
Whilest he shall hold forth light to see it by?
Shall I court curst Bellona with intent
To carve out with my sword my Monument?
No: th'Pen out lasts the Pike, and in mine eare
Minerva's Pipe sounds than her Trump more cleer.
Ile wear no spungie Buffe, nor fortifie
My selfe (my little citty) martially

With walls and countermures of steel; when I
Court Ajax shield, and the Art of Engenry
Its chiefly to oppose and keep the stout
And haughty foes of Virtue, Passions, out.

Mars shall not see me lockt in Brasse, or wield,
A speare againe, Ith blood-bedabled Field;
Unlesse my Prince, Honor, and Virtues cause
Call to assert their Rights, and equall laws.
But should I (as young Lyons new taught to prey
Invade the Herds) slow like a violent sea
On hostile Troops, or arm'd with wroth and heate
Plough up whole Armies and wall'd Townes subvert;
Or enter breaches like a winter floud
Till the resisting Cities swam in blood;
The fame o'th' deed with th'next Gazzet would burne
And with the rac'd Forts ashes find its urne.
Actions, though ne'r so arduous and high
Have no more life than one mans memory,
Unlesse some hallowed Pen in Castaly's
Sweet Nectar dipt give them eternity.
Romes glory (for whom Fame flew greater then
For other men) his acts had sullied been
With Dust of Time, had not his wiser skill
Againe done o'r, and brusht them with his quill.
Halfe's Tenure in his Booke, not all in's Sword
Lay, Ex utroque Cesar was the word.
Letters boast longer life than Porphyry
Or Marble, onely these can never die.
The Chapell sacred to great Maro's name
May sinke under Times weight, but not his fame,
That shall new burgeon in his high-rear'd straine,
And in his Verse his Bay shall sprout againe.
Though others wither, onely this chast Tree
From stormes, from blasting, and from bolts is free.

Not Naso's face ingraven in Rings of Gold
And worne by Princes, made his fame so old,
But his sweet Mvse that soar'd so even, yet high,
This, this 'twas tooke from him the power to die.
Trophies and Crownes i'th Field are but halfe given
I'th Study halfe. Deeds glorious as Heaven
Till Poesie send them 'bout the World to run
On even measur'd feet, are but halfe done,
They are not fledg'd till imp'd with th'Poets Quil
(The chiefest feather in Fames wing) his skill
Reads men and Deeds their doomes, his breath, like Fate
Can what he please make or annihihalate.
He gilds o'r Princes Crownes, his numbers can
Make Ease tast bitter, sweet Affliction.
Was not neat Ovid, a poore exil'd thing,
More honour'd than Assyria's wanton King
Melting to lust at home?—
Conquer'd Troys Son, and conquering Latium's Sire,
Lost not so much blisse by the Midwifes ire,
As by that golden Trumpet of his Deeds
Virgil, hee gain'd; 'twas he rais'd up his Head
To Heaven with Statues: though the hot youths Flame
Wasted the Towne 'twas He preserv'd the name.
Thou not immortall art great Thetis son,
For being dipt in Stix but Helicon,
By the blind Bard: He left not out thy heele,
Deaths dart thou, nor thy name, no more shalt feele.
Great He (the Muses high Priest) travelling
To lift unto the Starres the Ithacan King,
A Monument eternall hath brought forth
Which shall from eating Age preserve them both.
Of Princes this, of Poets that the Glory,
Homer by Ulysses live, he by his story.

Pallas strong arm (there) heaves them both so high
That Kings for such a Tombe would wish to die.
These Tombes shall live, and will admirers have,
Although Mavsolus his prove its own grave,
And needs a Muse that memory to afford
T'its selfe, that it should doe unto his Lord.

Since their names longest last whom their owne terse,
Or others pens embalme with sacred Verse,
By this Ile strive to be no sluggard knowne,
And to make every Age to come mine owne.
Ile court the Sister Quire with praises meet,
To teach my words to run on measur'd feet.
At Phoebvs Shrine my vowes i'l make and pay,
And on his Altar Sacrifices lay
And pil'd-up Hecatombes: His Harths I'l feast
With odors fragrant as the Phœnix neast.
Sweet gummes shall smoak in curles, and in his fire
Spice crackling yeeld sounds pleasant as his lyre,
In his wise eare: Thither my sweet-breath'd prayer
Shall up in clouds of Incense climbe; the aire
My Hymnes shall lull; Heap'd perfumes pious light
With flames full cleer, and as his own raies bright
Shall gild his Fane, till he unsealed hath
The holy Eount; there will I drench and bath
My braines, till they from earth and thicknesse are
Refin'd, and pure as are those streames; I'l there
With crown'd bowles swell me, till my fancy flies
Neer Heaven, entranc'd and fill'd with extasies,
Then sing notes worthy his owne Harpe, and prove
The Acts o'th' Theban and Evrydice's Love
No truthlesse tales, for duller things my Layes
Shall nimblier move, and stranger structures raise.
I'l scrue the spheres up higher, and lend agen
The Harmony of their round race to men.

Ile fix th'Almighty Poets Pen upon
The Zodiacke a Constellation.
If Momvs snarles, in drumming tunes my wrath
Shall rime the Dog, like Irish Rats, to death.
In keen Iambick's Ile untrusse the Elve
Till he runs mad, or wisely hangs himselfe
Lycambes like. Ile squirt his eyes with Inke
Shall rot the wretch, his Libels Leth' shall drinke.
Or plac'd above his reach, his rage Ile scorne,
And laugh to see his shafts on's owne pate turne.
Ile make each friend a Star, and fill the skies
Unfurnish'd roomes with them, and give more eyes
To Heaven to see those Hero's I will seat
Borne up by Statues, on a Pyramede
Of Glory in my Poems; I shall be
Eterniz'd thus by them, and they by me.
Then if no Issue of my Loynes convay
My Spirit downe unto Posterity,
That of my braine will: my lov'd Poetry,
My Son my History and Tombe shall be.

R. B.

Carminibus nec Fata nocent, ac sæcula prosunt,
Solaque non norunt hac Monumenta mori.

MARTIAL