The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) excluding Seneca and Manilius Introduced and Annotated by F. J. Van Beeck |
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 | PRINTED POEMS from Books by Various Authors |
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 | The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) |  |
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PRINTED POEMS from Books by Various Authors
105
To his Ingenious friend Mr. Charles Aleyn, on this his learned Poem.
------ Sume Superbiam,
Quaesitam meritis ------
Quaesitam meritis ------
Thinke not that these my weaker lines can raise
Or to thy name or to thy work a praise.
Yet give me leave to write, and let these be
The Testimonialls of my love to thee.
They're no true Leigemen, whosoe're disclaime
Tribute of Prayse unto thy Henries name.
Who now by thee instated lives, more high
Than in the joyes of former Royalty;
And from thy hand receives a better Crowne
Than was his Kingdomes Transitory one.
By thee he conquers Death and Time, thy words
Yeeld him his honour, more than could his swords,
And gaine a Nobler victory than he
Obtained o're usurping Tyrannie.
Great Henry, whom wise heaven did ordaine,
To blesse this Realme with thy most happy reigne.
No more, dull Chronicle thy worth shall hold
Or sullen prose thy Noble acts infold.
Behold! the shrine wherein thy reverend story
Shall ever be preserved, and thy glory,
Fresh to all Ages; then 'tis just we give
Praise to his name, 'has made thine truely live.
Ed. Sherburne
To his loving brother M. John Sherburn on his Translation of OVIDS Heroicall Epistles.
Wert thou like those whose works and selves; dependFor praise, on the fond largesse of some friend;
My verse might here a welcome room obtaine:
Which now perhaps, will name of flattery gaine.
Tis hard to write when praises may offend;
And such my fate were, should I here commend.
106
What I cannot, others thy worke will give:
Thy worke which shall to after-times endure
'Gainst Sciolists, and Zoilists secure.
Ed. Sherburne.
To the unfading Memory of the Lord Horatio Veere deceased.
If you would be resolv'd whose Dust lies here
Know 'tis the remnant of that Noble Veere
Whose tall Atchivements fill so large a room,
As Europe is too narrow for their Tombe,
And He can never perish in His Name
Whilst there is such a thing abroad as Fame.
Know 'tis the remnant of that Noble Veere
Whose tall Atchivements fill so large a room,
As Europe is too narrow for their Tombe,
And He can never perish in His Name
Whilst there is such a thing abroad as Fame.
Iust Belgia had cause enough to boast,
That He alone was her confiding Hoast;
Who singly when the Army was away
Suppli'd the place of the Militiæ.
And had unto her Seventeen Provinces
E're this, united the Antipodes;
And future times will deem that Land to lie
Entrench'd in teares that fell when He did dye,
And it will be Impiety to make
It firme, but rather drown it for His sake,
For the Low-Countries by His Deeds shall be
Preferr'd in Story to High-Germany.
That He alone was her confiding Hoast;
Who singly when the Army was away
Suppli'd the place of the Militiæ.
And had unto her Seventeen Provinces
E're this, united the Antipodes;
And future times will deem that Land to lie
Entrench'd in teares that fell when He did dye,
And it will be Impiety to make
It firme, but rather drown it for His sake,
For the Low-Countries by His Deeds shall be
Preferr'd in Story to High-Germany.
But Thou hast so out-fought Thy selfe that time,
Will thinke such Actions could be none of Thine,
And whil'st Thou did'st Thy Vertue so advance,
'Twas not a Truth but a well fainde Romance,
And I, preserving of Thy Honour, feare
Thou wilt be thought no Lord having no Peere.
Will thinke such Actions could be none of Thine,
And whil'st Thou did'st Thy Vertue so advance,
107
And I, preserving of Thy Honour, feare
Thou wilt be thought no Lord having no Peere.
E. S.
The Graces, or Hieron
The Muses, and the Muse-inspired Crew,
This always, as their best-lov'd Theam, pursue
The Honour of immortal Gods to raise,
And crown the Actions of Good Men with Praise.
For Deities the Muses are, and use
(As such) to give to Deities their Dues.
We Poets are but Mortals, sing we then
The Deeds of god-like, tho but mortal men.
This always, as their best-lov'd Theam, pursue
The Honour of immortal Gods to raise,
And crown the Actions of Good Men with Praise.
For Deities the Muses are, and use
(As such) to give to Deities their Dues.
We Poets are but Mortals, sing we then
The Deeds of god-like, tho but mortal men.
None kindly yet our Graces entertain,
But send them unrewarded back again.
This made the Girls, when bare-foot they came home,
Chide me, for idly sending them to roam
On sleeveless Errands: wearied here to stay,
They sigh their melancholy Souls away.
They loath their sordid Lodging, fume and fret
'Cause for their Labours they can nothing get.
For where's the generous Mortal now a-days
That loves to hear a Poet's well-tun'd Lays?
To find one such I know not; some, 'tis true,
Love to be prais'd; none a good Deed will do.
They value not their Honours, as of old
But are meer Slaves to Avarice and Gold.
Just or unjust, all Practices they try
For heaps of Treasure, but will rather dye
Than part with the bare Scrapings of its Rust,
To satisfie a needy Poet's Gust.
If any chance a Boon of them to beg,
They cry, My Knee is nearer than my Leg.
Of what is mine, my self alone shall share,
For their own Poets let the Gods take care.
Who to another's Pray'r now lends an Ear?
Not one. This truth Homer to all makes clear;
The best of Poets! tho the best he be,
He gets not yet one single Cross from me.
But send them unrewarded back again.
This made the Girls, when bare-foot they came home,
Chide me, for idly sending them to roam
On sleeveless Errands: wearied here to stay,
They sigh their melancholy Souls away.
They loath their sordid Lodging, fume and fret
'Cause for their Labours they can nothing get.
For where's the generous Mortal now a-days
That loves to hear a Poet's well-tun'd Lays?
To find one such I know not; some, 'tis true,
Love to be prais'd; none a good Deed will do.
They value not their Honours, as of old
But are meer Slaves to Avarice and Gold.
Just or unjust, all Practices they try
For heaps of Treasure, but will rather dye
Than part with the bare Scrapings of its Rust,
To satisfie a needy Poet's Gust.
If any chance a Boon of them to beg,
They cry, My Knee is nearer than my Leg.
Of what is mine, my self alone shall share,
For their own Poets let the Gods take care.
Who to another's Pray'r now lends an Ear?
Not one. This truth Homer to all makes clear;
108
He gets not yet one single Cross from me.
Mad men! what's Wealth, if still the hoarded Gold
From others under Lock and Key you hold?
None wise thinks this is the true use of it,
Some part for proper Interest we should fit,
And some apply to the Support of Wit:
Some to our near Allies we should allow,
To Strangers some, some to the Gods should vow,
Set some for Hospitality a-part,
To treat our Friends with open hand and heart:
But chiefly to maintain the Muses Quire;
That when to the old Grave thou shalt retire,
Thou may'st among the living gain Renown;
Nor mourn inglorious near sad Acheron,
As some poor Ditcher with hard brawny hand,
That cannot heavy Poverty withstand.
From others under Lock and Key you hold?
None wise thinks this is the true use of it,
Some part for proper Interest we should fit,
And some apply to the Support of Wit:
Some to our near Allies we should allow,
To Strangers some, some to the Gods should vow,
Set some for Hospitality a-part,
To treat our Friends with open hand and heart:
But chiefly to maintain the Muses Quire;
That when to the old Grave thou shalt retire,
Thou may'st among the living gain Renown;
Nor mourn inglorious near sad Acheron,
As some poor Ditcher with hard brawny hand,
That cannot heavy Poverty withstand.
The great Antiochus in plenteous measure
Supply'd his Subjects Wants from his own Treasure,
So King Alevas; many fat Droves went
Into his Stalls, and from his Stalls were sent.
Infinite Flocks large Pastures did afford
To furnish Crion's hospitable Board.
No Pleasure yet from all this Princely store
Could they receive, were their Souls wafted o're
In Charon's Boat to the dark Stygian Shore.
But in obscure Oblivion they would lye,
Depriv'd of all their Superfluity,
'Mongst wretched Souls whom no Time can, nor Age
From their sad Miseries e'er disengage,
If the great Ceian Poet had not been,
And with his Praises made them live again.
Ev'n the swift Coursers at th'Olympick Game
Are registred in the Records of Fame.
Who of the Lycian Princes e're had heard?
Of Cyrnus with his flaxen Hair and Beard,
Or Priam's Sons? forgot they had been long,
Their Wars their Battels, had not Poets sung.
Ulisses, who full six score Months was tost,
And Time and Wealth 'mongst several Nations lost;
Who went to Hell alive, and by a slight
From the fierce Cyclops Cave, made his safe flight,
Had never been remembred but for us,
Nor poor Eumæus or Philætius
His Shepheard, and his Herdsman. Who had known
That to great-Sould Laertes he was Son?
Had not the Ionian Bard his Acts and Name
Inroll'd in the eternal Book of Fame.
Supply'd his Subjects Wants from his own Treasure,
So King Alevas; many fat Droves went
Into his Stalls, and from his Stalls were sent.
Infinite Flocks large Pastures did afford
To furnish Crion's hospitable Board.
No Pleasure yet from all this Princely store
Could they receive, were their Souls wafted o're
In Charon's Boat to the dark Stygian Shore.
But in obscure Oblivion they would lye,
Depriv'd of all their Superfluity,
'Mongst wretched Souls whom no Time can, nor Age
From their sad Miseries e'er disengage,
If the great Ceian Poet had not been,
And with his Praises made them live again.
Ev'n the swift Coursers at th'Olympick Game
Are registred in the Records of Fame.
Who of the Lycian Princes e're had heard?
Of Cyrnus with his flaxen Hair and Beard,
Or Priam's Sons? forgot they had been long,
Their Wars their Battels, had not Poets sung.
Ulisses, who full six score Months was tost,
And Time and Wealth 'mongst several Nations lost;
Who went to Hell alive, and by a slight
From the fierce Cyclops Cave, made his safe flight,
Had never been remembred but for us,
109
His Shepheard, and his Herdsman. Who had known
That to great-Sould Laertes he was Son?
Had not the Ionian Bard his Acts and Name
Inroll'd in the eternal Book of Fame.
Glory on men is by the Muses spread,
The living waste the Treasure of the dead:
But easier 'tis for me to reckon o're
The Waves which the Wind drives against the Shore,
Or wash a Blackmoor white, then e're perswade
To good, a Slave to Avarice once made.
The living waste the Treasure of the dead:
But easier 'tis for me to reckon o're
The Waves which the Wind drives against the Shore,
Or wash a Blackmoor white, then e're perswade
To good, a Slave to Avarice once made.
Then farewel such vile Scoundrels! let them lye
Obscur'd in base Illiberality:
Doating upon their vast, and ill-got store,
Still vex'd with restless care of getting more.
A good man's Love to me's a greater Grace
Than many Mules or Horses for the Race.
Yet willingly a man I'd seek, would make
Me, and the Muses welcome for my sake:
But those sweet Singers, without Jove's Advice,
Will find the way too difficult and nice.
Yet has not Heaven left off to turn its Sphears,
Or ceas'd to measure time by Months and Years;
And happily there will a Man arise
May need our Verse, nor will our Songs despise;
One, that in Actions greater may engage
Than Ajax did, or stout Achilles wage
In Simois Fields; within whose Plains extent
Of Phrygian Ilus stands the Monument.
And now a Punick Race, near the Sun's set
From Libia's Confines Wars dire horrors threat.
Now Syracusians their short Javelins try,
And Wicker Targets to their Arms apply.
And 'mongst them, Hieron, equal to the best
Of ancient Hero's, stands in Armour drest,
A Horsemane shadowing o're his glittering Crest.
Oh mighty Jove! Father of Gods! Heav'ns King!
And thou who from his midwiv'd Brain did'st spring
Honour'd Minerva! and thou Proserpine!
With Mother Ceres! under whose divine
Protection still the mighty City stands,
First rais'd by wealthy Ephyrean hands,
Near Lysimelia's Lake, dread Pow'rs! expell
Sicilia's Foes: That they return'd may tell
Their Wives and Children how their slain friends fell;
And let the Towns by hostile Arms destroy'd,
By former Dwellers now be re-enjoy'd;
That they may dress their fertile Fields and breed
Numberless bleating Flocks therein to feed.
Let their horn'd Heards, call'd home at night from grass,
Urge lazy Travellers to mend their pace.
Let now the fallowed Fields be sown again,
And freshly flourish with fair Crops of Grain,
Whilst labouring Mowers the rich Meadows share,
Shrubs ecchoing with the shrill-voic'd Gras-hopper.
Let ev'n the Name of War in all Mouths cease,
Be no Arts cherish'd but the Arts of Peace:
Let Spiders rusty Arms in Cobwebs dress,
Let Poets Hieron's glorious Acts rehearse,
And spread his Fame throughout the Universe;
'Mongst whom I'll sing for one; tho I not reach
So high as some whom Jove's fair Daughters teach;
Who love Sicilian Arethusa's Name
To chant, and Hieron's valiant Acts proclaim.
Obscur'd in base Illiberality:
Doating upon their vast, and ill-got store,
Still vex'd with restless care of getting more.
A good man's Love to me's a greater Grace
Than many Mules or Horses for the Race.
Yet willingly a man I'd seek, would make
Me, and the Muses welcome for my sake:
But those sweet Singers, without Jove's Advice,
Will find the way too difficult and nice.
Yet has not Heaven left off to turn its Sphears,
Or ceas'd to measure time by Months and Years;
And happily there will a Man arise
May need our Verse, nor will our Songs despise;
One, that in Actions greater may engage
Than Ajax did, or stout Achilles wage
In Simois Fields; within whose Plains extent
Of Phrygian Ilus stands the Monument.
And now a Punick Race, near the Sun's set
From Libia's Confines Wars dire horrors threat.
Now Syracusians their short Javelins try,
And Wicker Targets to their Arms apply.
And 'mongst them, Hieron, equal to the best
Of ancient Hero's, stands in Armour drest,
A Horsemane shadowing o're his glittering Crest.
Oh mighty Jove! Father of Gods! Heav'ns King!
And thou who from his midwiv'd Brain did'st spring
Honour'd Minerva! and thou Proserpine!
With Mother Ceres! under whose divine
Protection still the mighty City stands,
First rais'd by wealthy Ephyrean hands,
Near Lysimelia's Lake, dread Pow'rs! expell
110
Their Wives and Children how their slain friends fell;
And let the Towns by hostile Arms destroy'd,
By former Dwellers now be re-enjoy'd;
That they may dress their fertile Fields and breed
Numberless bleating Flocks therein to feed.
Let their horn'd Heards, call'd home at night from grass,
Urge lazy Travellers to mend their pace.
Let now the fallowed Fields be sown again,
And freshly flourish with fair Crops of Grain,
Whilst labouring Mowers the rich Meadows share,
Shrubs ecchoing with the shrill-voic'd Gras-hopper.
Let ev'n the Name of War in all Mouths cease,
Be no Arts cherish'd but the Arts of Peace:
Let Spiders rusty Arms in Cobwebs dress,
Let Poets Hieron's glorious Acts rehearse,
And spread his Fame throughout the Universe;
'Mongst whom I'll sing for one; tho I not reach
So high as some whom Jove's fair Daughters teach;
Who love Sicilian Arethusa's Name
To chant, and Hieron's valiant Acts proclaim.
On the publication of the Posthume Poems of M. William Cartwright, sometime Student of Christ-Church in Oxon.
How subject to new Tumults is this Age!
With War lesse vex'd now, than Poetick Rage!
Were not State-Levellers enough! that yet
We must be plagu'd with Levellers of Wit?
Delvers in Poetry? that only skill
To make Parnassus a St George's Hill?
The Cyrrhan Grove's almost disforrested
To furnish Wreaths for each bold Rimers Head;
The Muses fear a Rape, or a Surprize,
So Phæbus might, but He their Fury flies.
With War lesse vex'd now, than Poetick Rage!
Were not State-Levellers enough! that yet
We must be plagu'd with Levellers of Wit?
Delvers in Poetry? that only skill
To make Parnassus a St George's Hill?
The Cyrrhan Grove's almost disforrested
To furnish Wreaths for each bold Rimers Head;
The Muses fear a Rape, or a Surprize,
So Phæbus might, but He their Fury flies.
What Pow'r may we invoke then, to withstand
This growing Plague? behold! a courteous Hand,
A kind, and timely Succour doth dispence:
CARTVVRIGHT comes forth; blush Sons of Impudence,
And Little Wit! CARTVVRIGHT; the Muses Fame,
Just Envy of best Poets, but your Shame.
This growing Plague? behold! a courteous Hand,
A kind, and timely Succour doth dispence:
CARTVVRIGHT comes forth; blush Sons of Impudence,
111
Just Envy of best Poets, but your Shame.
EDVV: SHERBURNE Esq.
On Ælian his Various History, Translated into English by Mr Thomas Stanley, the hopeful and onely Son of my dearest Friend Thomas Stanley of Cumberlow, Esquire.
ÆLIAN, as if affecting to be known
To others in a Language not his own,
This Curious Piece thought fit at first t'express,
Though native Roman, in a Grecian dress.
You, kind to him and us, what lay conceal'd
In a learn'd Tongue, have in our own reveal'd;
And taught our generous Youth by this Essay,
T'improve those hours they vainly cast away.
Your blooming years forth early Vertues shoot,
And ere we Leaves expected, shew us Fruit;
Such, and so various, as must needs invite
The dull, and please the curious appetite.
Not to know what was done ere we were born,
Is to live Children still; the too-just scorn
Of many an aged head: This slothful crime
Your industry refells; looks back on Time,
And shews as present in old Ælian's Glass
What-ere of rarest note long since did pass;
And that transmitted in a style and phrase
As pleasing as the Tempe it displaies.
To others in a Language not his own,
This Curious Piece thought fit at first t'express,
Though native Roman, in a Grecian dress.
You, kind to him and us, what lay conceal'd
In a learn'd Tongue, have in our own reveal'd;
And taught our generous Youth by this Essay,
T'improve those hours they vainly cast away.
Your blooming years forth early Vertues shoot,
And ere we Leaves expected, shew us Fruit;
Such, and so various, as must needs invite
The dull, and please the curious appetite.
Not to know what was done ere we were born,
Is to live Children still; the too-just scorn
Of many an aged head: This slothful crime
Your industry refells; looks back on Time,
And shews as present in old Ælian's Glass
What-ere of rarest note long since did pass;
And that transmitted in a style and phrase
As pleasing as the Tempe it displaies.
Goe on (dear Sir,) Goe on, and nobly trace
(Iulus-like) though with unequal pace,
Your learned Father's steps, who does engage
By so much Worth this too ungrateful age:
And think it still your best concern, you shou'd
Be like him in Variety of Good.
(Iulus-like) though with unequal pace,
Your learned Father's steps, who does engage
By so much Worth this too ungrateful age:
And think it still your best concern, you shou'd
Be like him in Variety of Good.
Edw. Sherburne.
| The poems and translations of Sir Edward Sherburne (1616-1702) | |