University of Virginia Library

Epigrams.

Epig. ex Theod. Beza.

To his Library having beene sometime absent thence.

Hayle to my bookes safe and in sight.
You, all my mirth; my choice delight.
My Cicero and Plinies both,
All haile to you; whom I was loath
To leave one minut: Cato, Columel,
My Varro, Livy, all are well.
Hayle to my Plautus, Terence too,
And Ovid say, how dost thou doe?
My Fabius, my Propertius,
And those not least belov'd of us,
Greeke Authors, exquisite all o're,
And whom I should have nam'd before,
Because of their Cothurnat straine,
And Homer then, whom not in vaine,
The people stil'd great: next I see
My Aristotle, hayle to thee
Plato, Tymæus, and the rest
Of you who cannot be exprest
In a phaleucik number; all,
Hayle to my Bookes in generall
Againe, and thrice, againe all hayle,
And may my prayer thus far prevaile,
O you my best lov'd bookes I pray,
(For I have beene sixe dayes away)
My absence yee will not distaste,
But with this love I left you last
You will receive me, which I vow,
Was fervent and sincere to you,
And if you grant this small request,
I further unto you protest,
Henceforth from you Ile be away
No weeke, no weeke said I? no day,
No day? no houre shall loose my care,
No minutes space that I can spare.

Of Erasmus, pictured but from the girdle upwards.

This painted table to thy view,
But halfe Erasmus lends.
Of great Erasmus, whose loud fame
Through the great world extends,
But why not his whole portraiture?
Cease Reader to complaine,
He was so great that the vast earth
His fame cannot containe.

Of Lucrece.

If to thy bed the adulterer welcome came,
O Lucrece, then thy death deserves no fame.
If force were offred, give true reason why,
Being cleare thy selfe thou for his fault wouldst dye?
Therefore in vaine thou seekst thy fame to cherish,
Since mad thou fal'st, or for thy sinne dost perish.

Vpon the Venetian History written by Petrus Bembus.

O Bembus Venice in thy birth is fam'd,
And in thy worth the Cities worth proclaim'd,
Thou happy in that Citty, and agen,
It happy to have thee a Citizen;
Yet thou O Bembus by thy learned booke,
Gav'st back more to it, than from it thou tooke.
What thou receiv'st, was mortall, and must dy;
What thou returnst, shall live eternally.

Of Helionora the French Queene.

Then Hellen Phœbus could no rarer view,
Nor all the world a fairer yeeld than you.
Both beautifull! yet you in this excell;
She brocht dissention, discord you expell.

Of Iohannes Secundus an excellent Poet of the Hage in Holland.

If an high worke thou undertak'st; to rise
In Virgils straine, and looke out with his eyes;
Or if light Elegies art pleas'd to sing,
Such as from Ovids veyne were knowne to spring;
If to the ly'r of Pindarus thou fit
Thy various notes, to make him blush at it;
If thou make Belbulus his browes contort,
To see how he in Epigrams can sport;
These foure thou shalt excell: even thou alone
Secundus, who art second unto none.

Against Philenus who carpt at Erasmus.

Erasmus whom as many say,
None shall or hath beene to this day
More learned: yet to thee thou gull,
Most stupid he appeares and dull,
And what aspersions thou canst frame
To calumnise his noble name,
By thee or others are collected,
In hope to make him disrespected.
Barke still Philenus with the rest,
Since 'tis apparant to the best,
That learn'd Erasmus much more knew,
Than is unknowne to all of you.

To Lodovick Masurus of his verses made of the fall of Babylon.

Whilst Masurus thou with a lowder tongue
Soundst Babels fall, then ever Troyes was song,
Thou hast given cause Homer should thee envie,
Or Maro (greater) that thou writ'st so hye,
Yet Masurus one error may be found
In thy brave worke for all its stentors sound,
That in so great a verse thy fame pursuing
Thou buildst for ever what thou striv'st to ruin.

Vpon three the most excellent Divines of France then living.

The Church of France, late Calvin did admire,
Then whom no one more learn'd could teach.
Turellus, who to thunder did aspire,
Then whom none could more strongly preach.
The Honey tongud Viretus, He who still
Nothing save sweetnes doth deliver.
France, thou by these maist sav'd be if thou will,
Or else be lost for ever.

A comparison betwixt Poets and Monkes.

Receive, why the Franciscan I compare
To Homer: and thinke Monkes and Poets are
Both like. Francis (we read of old) was blind,
And so was Homer, as we written find;
He of his eyes, the other in his mind.
A begger Francis was, Homer was poore,
And both sung Hymnes at every rich mans dore.
The vast world both their rapsodies admires,
From the one's Poets, from the others Friers.
Poets at first in remote woods did dwell,
The Monkes at first chus'd out the Cave and Cell.
The Woods forsooke, the Monkes themselves betake
Vnto the Townes, and Poets then forsake
The Groves to live in Cities: Night and day
The Poet sings, and so the Monke doth bray,
And in their musick both alike delight.
The Muse the wanton Poet doth accite,
To have his Cinthia, and the shaven Frier
Not one alone, but many doth desire.
With water if the Poet chance to meet
In stead of Wine, his verse comes off unsweet.
And if unto the Monke you water bring
When he would drinke, he will but sadly sing.
The Poet when his Harpe's about him tyde,
His pleasant notes most sweetly will divide:
And so the Monke too will sound nothing dull,
When as the Flagon at his girdle's full.
Th' one in an Atheists fury doth exclaime,
Th' other an Enthean rapture doth inflame,
And still the Thyrsian favor he doth weare,
As th' other crosses doth about him beare.
The victor Poets Mirtles and Bayes renowne,
And the Monkes honour is his shaven crowne.

The excellent Poet George Buchanan, upon a Diamond cut like an Hart, and sent from Mary Queene of Scots, to the most excellent Lady Queene Elizabeth.

Not that my substance neither can be bow'd,
Or flaw'd by fire or steele, doth make me proud,
Nor clearnes wanting staine, not that I still
Shine with perspicuous light, not th' Artists skill
Who gave me forme, and cloath'd me thus in gold,
That I might seeme more glorious to behold:
But if in me appeare the least ostent,
It is because I'am made to represent
The heart of my sweet Mistresse, and so neare,
That if the same Heart in her bosome were,
With eyes to bee survey'd, more constant none,
More cleare, more spotlesse could be look't upon,
Both splenderous alike, and without staine,
In all things equall, save there doth remaine
A difference in our hardnesse: but to me
A second favour's lent, a hope to see
Of you Heroick Lady, the bright face:
Then which there cannot bee a greater grace.
Hope of which grace I almost was bereft,
After I once had my deare mistresse left.
O that my fate so much to me would daine,
That I might in an adamantine chaine
Linke your two hearts, in such a strong condition,
As that no emulation, no suspition,
Nor spleene, nor age, nor hate, could break asunder,
So should I of all stones be held the wonder.
So I more blest were than all stones by far,
So I more bright were than all stones that are.
So then all stones I were more deare indeed,
As I in hardnesse doe all stones exceed.

Of Chrisalus.

Graine the long yeares hope in the eare doth pine,
The tedious frost doth pinch thy forward kine:
Rot kills thy sheepe, theeves steale thy gotes; and now
Thy labouring Oxen perish at the plow.
Losse after losse when Chrisalus had found,
And he himselfe unwilling to be found
Alone: when his whole state was cras'd, bethought
To hang himselfe so he might do't for nought.
But soone that purpose in his mind was lost,
When he considerd what a rope would cost,
For he would die of free-cost: he thinks then
To kill himselfe with a sharpe sword, but when
He lookt about and saw none, nay saith he,
To buy a sword were too much charge for me.
Hee then saith to himselfe: doubtlesse that knave
The Sexton expects something for my grave,
And somewhat those that put me in my shroud,
And somewhat must the bearers be allowd.
The Priest, the candles, ringing of the bell:
And prayers too, must cost somewhat I know well.
Therefore to save all charges, this I say,
Ile drowne my selfe, and that's the cheapest way.
He did so, And thus speaking in his fall,
See thus for nothing I discharge them all.

In Romam.

I wonder not a Shepheard Rome should sway,
A Shepheard Romes foundation first did lay,
My wonder is since, Romulus the first
That reard the same, was by a shee-wolfe nurst,
That even to these dayes as we plainely see,
So many raging Wolves in Rome should be.
This onely doth my admiration breed,
A Wolfe should keepe the fould, and the sheepe feed.

An Epitaph upon Iacobus Sylvius.

Here Sylvius lies, who when he liv'd
Gave nothing, and being dead,
He yet laments, that what's writ here,
For nothing should be read.

Ex Angelo Politiano. Epigram In Pamphilum.

Thou sendst me wine O Pamphilus,
I had enough at first.
Wilt send me what shall better please?
Then prethee send me thirst.

Against Mabilius a bitter rayling Poet.

There be but few teeth in thy jawes,
But in thy verse are none,
And those thou hast be rotten, or
Their use by age is gone.
And though thou canst not bite at all,
Yet barke thou dost meane space.
Which showes thee (though in shape a man,)
Yet of a dogged race.

Ex Accij sinceri sannazarij Neopolitani viri patricij. Epigram. Of the admirable City Venice.

Neptune in th'Adriatick maine saw stand
Venice whose power did all the Sea command,
And saith, now Iove show thy Tarpeian Towers
And walls of Mars, unto this scite, now ours.
If thou before the mighty Ocean dare
The petty River Tiber to compare,
Behold both Cities there give up this doome,
The Gods built Venice, Men erected Rome.

Ex M. Anthonij Flamminij. Epigram. Of Cardinall Pooles Picture.

Great Poole, as in that excellent Table wee
The picture of thy body plaine may see,
So could one paint the beauty of thy mind,
No rarer thing, we on the earth could find.

Of a faire gilt Bowle sent unto him from Benedict Accoltus Cardinall.

This golden Cup swelling with Chios juyce,
Given by Accoltus to his Poets use,
Part of this wine Bacchus to thee I send,
And part to thee Apollo, I commend.
Now Muses take the Cup, and it brim-fill
With Nectar, which may to my braine distill,
That worthy thankes I may Accoltus give,
In such high verse as may for ever live.

Ex Mario Molsa. Of the City Rome being late wasted by the Germanes.

Th' Empires burnt ashes didst thou now behold
O Catiline, and her glory waxt so old,
The Capitoll, and high Tarpeian spires,
Couldst thou but view defac't by forraigne fires,
Now coverd in long ruines, thou wouldst run,
And loudly cry, This by the gods was done.
For amongst mortall men, what's he once durst
Doe this to Rome, which I had menac't first?
O how much better had it beene that I
Had beene the cause of all thy misery!
Whil'st buried Rome from darknes thou dost strive
To raise (O Blondus) and keepe still alive
Dead Romulus and Remus: by thy wit,
They a rude City did erect, but it
Thy labour hath re-built, making it shine
So to the world, tis almost held divine.
And though the barbarous Foe it overthrew,
Thy lasting verse, hath still repaird it new.
A Tombe to thee, triumphant Rome did give,
That it to thee, and thou to it maist live.

Ex Antonio Titaldeo. An Epitaph upon Ioannes Mirandula.

Mirandula here tombed lies;
Wouldst thou know more? aske these,
Tagus and Ganges best knows, and
Perhaps the Antipodes.

Ex Benedicti Theocreni. Epigram. Upon a Comet which Lewes of Savoy saw a little before his death.

A bearded star when Lewes did espy,
With horrible aspect his life to threat,
Loe here, a Torch saith he that from on high
Lights me to heaven, (his spirit was so great.

Ex Ioanne secundo Hagiensi. Of one Charinus who had married a deformed wife.

Charinus I beheld of late,
Thy wife so sweet, so delicate,
So faire, so chaste, so neat, so fine,
That almost I could wish her mine.
And if great Iove would give me three,
In all respects but such as shee
I two would unto Pluto grant,
To take away that paravant.

Ex Henrici Stephani Epigram. Of Phillis who was delivered within five moneths after her marriage.

Phillis late married as 'tis sed,
Before her time was brought a bed;
The noise of which, (to her disgrace)
Was spoken of in every place.
Which brought to her by one she knew,
Who told her how such rumor grew,
She smil'd, and thus excus'd the crime,
The vulgar mis-compute the time:
Nine moneths I know they will allow
A teeming woman, and I now
Exceed that limit; Five months hee
Tis well knowne, hath beene wed to mee,
So five moneths I to him have beene
In wedlock joyn'd, then where's the sinne?
Adde five moneths unto five, and then
Who knowes not but they make up ten?

Upon Pompe's death.

Though thou great Duke inhum'd dost lie
Vpon the Pharian shore,
Blame not the fates who thought thereby
To honor thee the more.
Vnworthy was the earth thy bones,
Which thou subdude by force;
Onely the Heavens, and they alone
Were worthy of thy Coarse.

Ex Ioanne Colta. Of the City Verona.

Verona whatsoere hee be,
Who when he first shall looke on thee,
It doth not his affection move
To dote on thee with perdit love,
I thinke he not himselfe respects;
And that he wants true loves affects,
His sences are not in good state,
Nay all the graces he doth hate.

Ex Petro Hembo. An Epitaph upon one Thebaldæus an excellent Musitian.

Eridanus and Tiberis flood,
Who when upon their bankes thou stood,
Admir'd thee singing (in one bred
And by the other nurst and fed)
Most credible it is that thou
In the Elysian fields singst now,
And mak'st such musicke with thy tongue,
That all the Gods about thee throng.

Ex Balt asser Castilione. An Epitaph upon a Virgin whose name was Gratia.

Stay Travailer, and looke upon
This Marble ere thou part.
Read here, and if thou dropst no teares,
Thou likewise marble art.
Sweet Grace is dead, for cruell death
Takes both the faire and wise,
(Alas the while) and here beneath
This stone, intombed lyes,
She both her sisters tooke along,
So that we now may say
All the three graces in her death
Did perish in one day.

Ex Antonio Casanova. Of Lucrece.

Why Lucrece better might her selfe have slaine
Before the act, than after her black staine,
Can any tell? no crime she did commit,
For of all guilt, her hand did her acquit.
Her ravisher she slew by that brave stroke,
And from her Countries neck tooke off the yoke.
From thine owne hand thy death most willing came,
To save thy Country, and preserve thy fame.

In praise of Archery.

Upon a Booke late published by one Bird a Coachman, calld Byrds businesse.

Against a base and infamous Balladder, who disperst a scandalous riming Libell, in which hee malitiously traduced the noble exercises weekely practised in the Artillery Garden.

I conclude this Worke, suiting with the present, concerning the worth of Physick, and Physitians, deriving my president from a worthy Gentleman called M. Perisaulus Faustinus.

[There is a gift that's sacred, lent to man]