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Du Bartas

His Divine Weekes And Workes with A Compleate Collectio[n] of all the other most delight-full Workes: Translated and written by yt famous Philomusus: Iosvah Sylvester

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HIS LIFE, &c.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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HIS LIFE, &c.

Sacrum Memoriæ Ornatissimi Pientissimique ipsius Amici, Magistri losuæ Sylvester; Qui in Oppido Middleburgensi, vicesimo octauo die Septembris, Anno Domini 1618. Annoque Ætatis suæ 55. Fatis Concessit.
In Verse to personate what Art hath painted,
Craves not Apelles, but Apollo's skill;
The vaine and strain of Maro's learned Quill,
Or some with sweet Vrania best-acquainted.
Yet, sith even all, whose Browes are deckt with Bayes,
Seem to neglect Thee; Pan hath ta'ne the paines
(With Oaten-pipe, in homely rustick Strains)
To sound, not Arts, but Hearts plain warbled Layes.
Is't not a Wonder, worthy admiration,
In this so Sin-full, Sin-soule Age, to see
All reall Vertues in one Man to bee?
All, met in one, to have cohabitation?
Thou wast no Lordly great Cosmopolite;
Yet, much renowned by thy vertuous Fame:
A Saint on Earth (No need of greater Name.)
A true Nathanael, Christian-Israelite.
Thy Wisedom, in thy Sparing-Speech was showne.
'Tis strange his Words should drop, whose Works did stream:
Yet, Words and Works shone (all) with Graces Beam:
Thy Pietie, Sobrietie, well knowne.
Religious, Valiant, like good Iosuæ.
Religious, in Thy Selfe and Familie:
Courageous, to withstand Adversitie
And worldly Cares; which most men, most dismay.


No Temporizer; yet, the Court frequenting:
Scorning to sooth, or smooth this Ages crimes:
At Warre with Vice, in all thy holy Rymes:
Thine Israels-Sins (with Ieremie lamenting.
No Crœsus-rich, nor yet an Irus-poore:
The Golden-Mean, was thy Chiefe Loves delight.
Thy Portion pleas'd thee well; and well it might:
Than Pietie, what Riches better? more?

His Languages.

Adorned with the Gift of Gods good Spirit:

I mean the Gift of Tongues; French, Spanish, Dutch,
Italian, Latin. As thy Selfe, few such:
But, for thy Native-English, of most Merit.
Wherein, like former fluent Cicero
(With Figures, Tropes; Words, Phrases, sweetly rare)
Of Eloquence thou mad'st so little spare,
That Nile (in Thee) may seem to over-flowe.

His Works.

Witness Du Bartas (that rare Master-Peece

Of Poetrie) to past and future Times:
By whose mellifluous, sugred, sacred Rimes,
Thou gotst more fame, than Iason by his Fleece.
Of which thy Work (I iustly may averre)
The radiant Sun-shine is so fair, so trim,
As other Poets Moon-light much doth dim;
Admired Silver-Tongued Sylvester.
Yea, All thy full-ear'd Harvest-Swathes are such,
As (almost) all thy Brethrens high-topt Sheaves
Bend, bow to thine, like Autumn-scattered Leaves;
So white thy Wheate is, and the Weight so much.
Nor wrong I them, by this harsh appellation.
Their pleasing Veine was oft too vaine: but, Thine,
Still pleasant-grave: Heer, Moral; There, Divine.
Right Poet-Laureat Thou wert of our Nation.
This then, say I (maugre the Spleen infernall
Of Elvish-Envie) shall promote thy Praise,
And trim thy Temples with nere-fading Bayes.
Such heavenly Off-springs needs must live Eternall.
What should I say? much more than I can say.
A Man thou wert; and yet, than man much more.
Thy Soule resembled-right an House of Store;
Wherein all Vertues, in Thee, treasur'd lay.


A blessed Death an holy Life ensues.
Thy pious End this Truth hath well exprest:
Such as thy Life, such was thy Death; all-blest:
Thy Heav'n-born Soule, her Native-Home did chuse.
And, hadst thou dy'd at Home, it had bin better;
It would (at least) have given thee much Content:
But, heerin, England's worthy to be shent,
Which to thy Worth did prove so bad a Debter.
Nor minde I this, but then I blush for shame
To think, that though a Cradle, Thee it gave,
Yet (O vnkinde) deny'd thy Corps a Grave;
Much more a Statue, reared to thy Name.
But, Thou wert wise; who to thy Selfe built'st One
(Such, such an One) as is of endless Date:
A reall, royall-one; which (spite of Hate)
To Times last time shall make thy Glory knowne.
Now, though thy step-Dame Country cast thee off;
(Ah! too vngratefull, most vnkinde, to Thee.)
Yet heer accept a Mite of Love from Mee
(Thy Meanest Brother) This Mean Epitaph:

His EPITAPH.

Heer lyes (Death's too-rich Prize) the Corps enterr'd
Of Iosvah Sylvester Du Bartas Peer;
A Man of Arts best Parts, to God, Man, deer;
In formost Rank of Poets best, preferr'd.
Iohn Vicars.