OF THE VVORKE, AVTHOR, AND TRANSLATER.
Lo heer, a Monvment admir'd of all
That weigh the compass, weight, and height of It;
O'r-topping Enuie's clowds, and ever shall,
Sith built by deepest Art, and highest Wit.
The Base that beares it, is the Word that stands
True Grovnd of highest glorie, Truth, and grace:
The Bvilding rear'd by two rare Heads and Hands
Divinely holp) to glorifie that Base.
Heer French and English, ioyne in friendly fight
(On even Ground) to prove their vtmost powr;
Who shew such equall Skill, and equall Might,
That hard it is to say who's Conquerour.
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 Overthrowe.
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 straue with equall Skill and Wit.
Besides, all Prose is easier to translate
Then Verse; and easier lowe, then lofty Lines:
Then, these Lines, reaching to the top of State,
Are hard'st of all; yet none of all declines.
O fair Translation then, with smoothed face,
Go forth t'allure Times
Turns, to turne Thee o're:
So shall they in thy folds vnfold thy grace;
And grace thee with Fames glorie more and more.
If
He, that churn'd the cream of Poetry,
To honied Butter, that the Muses feeds,
Divined truely, it should never die;
Then, what shall This, that far the same exceeds?
He labour'd Lines, which though they doe endure
All turns of Time, yet was their Stuf prophane:
But, these are drawne of Stvf more heauenly-pure,
That most shall shine; when those are in the wane.
He, 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, chastly else dispos'd:
But, Thou (cleer
Bartas, his dear
Sylvester,
Whose Lines do lead to Vertves onely gain,
And with sweet Poesies strew'st the way to Her)
How should the World remunerate thy paine?
And, If from Hearts Aboundance Tongues do speak;
And what we most affect, we most do 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 vtter her Conceits;
For whose dear birth, thou didst all ease refuse,
Worlds-weal, and (being a Marchant) 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
Arts 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 Bodie with thy Minde,
More freely so, to vse thy Wit and Will.
And (O!) how hapless had we Brittans been
(Sith heer is stor'd such sweet Soule-rauishments)
Hadst thou not made them to vs 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 Press shall be
Prest but for Vices Service (Sourse of Shame).
So Times to come, in Print our shame shall see.
But O! bee 't farre from this so famous Isle
For Armes and Learning, either to neglect;
Sith it doth grace and glory quite exile,
And is the cause of many a bad effect.
O terren Gods, as ye to State aspire,
Lift Learning vp with you; especially
If matcht with Wisdom, and divine desire:
So shall ye twice be like the Deitie.
And, weigh what powr the Pens of such possess
(Of such; for others will but gild your Crimes)
Their Pens eternize can your worthiness,
And make ye glorious past succeeding Times.
But you doe iustly to neglect and scorn
The cursed crue, that do the Muse abuse:
For, they your praises to dispraises turn;
As Vice, in praising Vertves grace, doth vse.
Their wine-driven braines, inuolv'd in Follies Cloud,
Fly heer, and there (and where not?) with a trice?
And, though both Beggers base, yet passing proud;
Constant in nothing but inconstant Vice:
Making loose lines (forsooth) their Scala Cœli;
A Tauerne for a Temple to adore
Their only god, their guts, their beastly Belly;
To whom they offer all their slender Store.
The Lauds of such, are odious like their Lives:
They (Pitch) pollute what-ere they do but touch;
Whose glory to the fowlest shame arrives:
Then, well you fence your fame to keep off such.
But they whose lives, and lauds, and lines are Sovrce
Of Morall vertue, running by each stone
(Men High, and Hard; that let them in their Course)
To Seas of glory, like cleer Helicon;
O! these ye should support, and still receiue
Into the Ocean of your bound-less 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 die, 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 we had never heard,
Had Virgils
Straines not been his Trumpeters.
One of the Nine had been our Warwick's
Gvy,
(The Nine, whose worth all Times so much commend;
And so disrankt great Bvllens Godferey)
Had he but had a Tasso for his friend.
Lavra had nere so greenly growne aboue
Her Peers, as now she doth, to after-times,
Had she not had a Petrarch to her Loue;
Which made her mount, with Nectar dropping Rimes.
No, no: ye cannot but out-live your Fame,
If ye vphold not Fame's best Notaries:
If these ye scorn, your glory is but game;
For, when ye die, in game your glory dies.
And, though blest Peace hath turnd our Spears, to Spades,
Let it not turn our Pens to Ploughes, or worse;
By Learning some should live, as some by Trades,
In blessed 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, ther the worst shall Lord it ore the best;
And where that is, all goes to vtter sack.
Reward and Punishment (like Armes of Steel)
Do still vphold each King vpholding State:
For, neither wants, but it begins to reel;
But, both imploy'd, stands sure in spight of Hate.
Then may thy Hopes (wingd by thy vertuous Muse)
Dear Syluester, expect some cherishment,
In this blest State, that still those Armes will vse,
To stay her Grace, and grace her Gouernment:
But, if thy paines acquire but pure renowne,
Thou art Christ's Image, crost, for Glorious crown.
Beneficium dando accipit, qui digno dedit.
The vnfained lover of thine Art, honesty, and vertue,
Iohn Davies of Hereford.
FINIS.
