Commendatory poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Lo here a Monument admir'd of all
That weigh the compass, weight, and height of it;
O'r-topping Envie's clouds, and ever shall
Sith built by deepest Art, and highest Wit.

The Base that bears it, is the Word that stands
True Ground of highest glorie, truth, and grace:
The Building rear'd by two rare heads and hands
(Divinely holp) to glorifie that Base.

Here French and English, joyne in friendly fight
(On even Ground) to prove their utmost power;
Who shew such equall Skill, and equall Might,
That hard it is to say who's conqueror.

But, English bound to foot it like the French
And offer nought, but what shall like her foe,
It is as glorious seld to take a Wrench,
As being free, to give an overthrow.

If French to English were so strictly bound,
It would but passing lamely strive with it;
And soon be forc't to lose both grace and ground,
Although they strave with equall Skill and Wit.

Besides, all Prose is easier to translate
Then Verse; and easier low, then lofty Lines:
Then, these Lines, reaching to the top of State
Are hard'st of all: yet none of all declines.

O faire Translation then, with smoothéd face,
Goe forth to' allure Time's Turns, to turn Thee o'r:
So shall they in thy folds unfold thy grace;
And grace thee with Fame's glory more and more.

Ovid me.

Hee, that churn'd the Cream of Poetry,
To honied Butter, that the Muses feeds,

Divinéd truly, it should never die;
Then, what shall This, that far the same exceeds?

Hee labour'd Lines, wch though they doe endure
All turns of Time, yet was their stuf profane:
But these are drawn of Stuf more heav'nly pure,
That most shall shine; when those are in the wane.

Hee, though his Braines (profanely) were divine,
And glorious Monuments of art compos'd,
Was yet exil'd for many a looser Line,
That made them wantons, chastely else dispos'd:

But, thou (clear Bartas, his dear Sylvester,
Whose Lines do lead to Vertues only gaine,
And with sweet Poesies strew'st the way to her)
How should the World remunerate thy paine?

And, if from heart's aboundance tongues do speak;
And what we most affect, wee most doe minde:
It argues, thou this Argument didst seek;
Sith, in thy Soule before, thou didst it finde.

So, Bartas was but Mid-wife to thy Muse,
With greater ease to utter her Conceits;
For whose dear birth, thou didst all ease refuse,
World's-weale, and (being a Merchant) thy Receits.

This pain so pleas'd thy labouring Thoughts, that thou
Forsook'st the Sea, and took'st thee to the Soile,
Where (from thy royall Trade,) thou fell'st to plow
Art's furrows with thy Pen, that yeeld but toyl.

This stole thee from thy selfe, thy selfe to finde
In sacred Raptures on the Muses' Hill:
And, went'st out of thy Body with thy Minde,
More freely so, to use thy Wit and Will.

And (O!) how haplesse had wee Britains been
(Sith here is stor'd such sweet Soule-ravishments)
Hadst thou not made them to us clearly seen:
Who give thee for it praising Discontents?

If so great Art and Grace, finde nought but fame
Of famous Men for grace; the Presse shall be
Prest but for Vice's Service (Source of shame).
So Times to come, in Print our shame shall see.

But O! be't far from this so famous Isle
For Armes and Learning, either to neglect;
Sith it doth grace and glorie quite exile,
And is the cause of many a bad effect.

O terrene Gods, as yee to State aspire,
Lift Learning up with you; especially
If matcht with Wisedome, and divine desire:
So shall yee twice be like the Deity.

And, weigh what pow'r the Pens of such possesse
(Of such; for others will but gild your Crimes)
Their Pens eternise can your worthinesse:
And make yee glorious, past succeeding Times.

But you doe justly to neglect and scorn
The curséd crue, that doe the Muse abuse:
For, they your praises to dispraises turn;
As Vice, in praising Vertue's grace, doth use.

Their wine-driv'n brains, involv'd in follie's cloud,
Fly here, and there (and where not?) with a trice:
And, though both beggars base, yet passing proud;
Constant in nothing but inconstant Vice:

Making loose lines (forsooth) their Scala Cœli,
A Taverne for a Temple to adore;
Their onely god, their guts, their beastly Belly,
To whom they offer all their slender Store.

The Lands of such, are odious like their Lives:
They (Pitch) pollute what-ere they doe but touch;
Whose glory to the foulest shame arrives:
Then, well you fence your fame to keep off such.

But they whose lives, and lauds, and lines are Source
Of Moral vertue, running by each stone
(Men high, and hard, that let them in their Course)
To Seas of glory, like clear Helicon;

O! these ye should support, and still receive
Into the Ocean of your bound-lesse love:
For these (like truest Friends) will take, and give
No more but what true Vertue shall approve.

If these should pine away through your neglect,
Your memories shall dye, or live with shame;
Sith such a Muse is the chiefe Architect,
To reare, from Earth to Heav'n, a lasting Name.

Achilles' fame, with him, had been interr'd,
Had Homer's lines not ty'd it to the Stars:
And, of Æneas wee had never heard,
Had Virgil's Strains not been his Trumpeters.

One of the Nine had bin our Warwick's Guy,
(The Nine, whose worth all Times so much commend;)
And so disrankt great Bullen's Godfery
Had hee but had a Tasso for his friend.

Laura had ne're so greenly growne above
Her Peers, as now she doth, to after-times,
Had she not had a Petrarch to her Love;
Which made her mount, with Nectar-dropping Rimes.

No, no: ye cannot but out-live your Fame,
If ye uphold not Fame's best Notaries:
If these ye scorne, your glory is but game;
For, when ye die, in game your glory dies.

And, though blest Peace hath turn'd our Spears to spades,
Let it not turn our pens to ploughs, or worse;
By Learning some should live as some by Trades,
In blesséd States, that would incurre no curse.

Where Vertue is not rais'd, and Vice supprest,
There all to Vice will run; and so to wrack:
For, there the worst shall Lord it ore the best;
And where that is, all goes to utter sack.

Reward, and Punishment (like Armes of Steel)
Doe still uphold each King-upholding State:
For, neither wants, but it begins to reel;
But, both imploy'd, stands sure in spight of Hate.

Then may thy Hopes, wing'd by thy vertuous Muse,
Dear Sylvester, expect some cherishment,
In this blest State; that still those Armes will use,
To stay her Grace, and grace her Government:
But, if thy paines acquire but pure renowne,
Thou art Christ's Image, crost for Glorious crown.

Beneficium dando accipit, qui digno dedit.

The unfained lover of thine Art, honesty, and vertue, John Davies of Hereford.

FINIS.