 | Christs Passion |  |
TO THE AUTHOR.
Ovr Ages wonder, by thy birth the Fame
Of Belgia, by thy banishment the Shame:
Who to more Knowledge younger didst arrive
Then forward Glaucias, Yet art still alive:
Whose Masters oft (for suddenly you grew
To equall and passe those, and need no new)
To see how soon, how farre, thy wit could reach,
Sat down to wonder, when they came to teach:
Oft then would Scaliger contented be
To leave to mend all times to polish thee,
And of that paines effect did highlier boast
Then had he gaind all that his Fathers lost:
When thy Capella read (which till thy hand
Had cleared, few grave and learnd did understand,
Though well thou mightst at such a tender age
Have made ten lessons of the plainest page)
That King of Criticks stood amaz'd to see
A worke so like his own set forth by thee:
Nor with lesse wonder on that worke did look
Then if the Bridegroome had begot the Book,
To whom thy age and act seem'd to unite
At once the youth of Phœbus and the light:
Thence lov'd thee with a never dying flame,
As the adopted Heire, to all his Fame;
For which care, wonder, love, thy riper dayes
Paid him with just and with eternall praise.
Who gaind more honour from one verse of thine,
Then all the Canës of his Princely line:
In that he joy'd, and that oppos'd to all,
To Titius spight, to hungrie Schoppius gall,
To what (with cause disguis'd) Bonarccius writes,
To Debios rage, and all his Loyolties:
But though to thee each Tongue, each Art be known,
As all thy time that had imploid alone,
Though Truth doe naked to thy fight appeare,
And scarce can we doubt more then thou canst cleare:
Though thou at once dost different glories joyne,
A loftie Poet, and a deep Divine;
Canst in the purest phrase cloath solid sence,
Scevola's law in Tullies eloquence;
Though thy employments have exceld thy Pen,
Shew'd thee much skil'd in books, but more in men,
And prov'd thou canst at the same easie rate
Correct an Author and uphold a State;
Though this rare praise doe a full truth appeare
To Spaine and Germany, who more doe feare
(Since thou thy aid did'st to that State afford)
The Swedish counsels then the Swedish sword:
All this yet of thy worth makes but a part,
And we admire thy head lesse then thy heart,
Which (when in want) yet was too brave to close
(Though Woo'd) with thy ungratefull Countries foes,
When their chiefe Ministers strove to entice,
And would have bought thee at what ever price:
Since all our praise and wonder is too small
For each of these, what shall we give for all?
All that we can, we doe; a Pen divine,
And differing onely in the Tongue from thine,
Doth thy choice labours with successe reherse,
And to another world transplants thy verse,
At the same height to which before they rose,
When they forc'd wonder from unwilling foes:
Now Thames with Ganges may thy labours praise,
Which there breed Faith, and here devotion raise.
Though your acquaintance all of worth pursue,
And count it honour to be known to you,
I dare affirme your Catalogue does grace
No one who better doth deserve a place:
None hath a larger heart, a fuller head,
For he hath seen as much as you have read:
The neerer Countries past, his steps have prest
The new found World, and trod the Sacred East,
Where his brows due the loftie Palmes doe rise,
Where the proud Pyramids invade the skies;
And, as all think who his rare friendship own,
Deserves no lesse a journey to be known.
Vlysses, if we trust the Grecian song,
Travel'd not farre, but was a prisoner long,
To that by Tempest forc'd; nor did his voice
Relate his Fate: His travels were his choice,
And all those numerous Realmes, returnd agen,
Anew he travel'd over with his Pen,
And, Homer to himselfe, doth entertaine
With truths more usefull, then his Muse could faine.
Next Ovids Transformations he translates
With so rare Art, that those which he relates
Yeeld to this transmutation, and the change
Of men to Birds and Trees appeares not strange:
Next the Poetick parts of Scripture, on
His loome he weaves, and Iob and Solomon
His Pen restores with all that heavenly Quire;
And shakes the dust from Davids solemn Lyre:
For which from all with just consent he wan
The title of the English Buchanan.
Of Belgia, by thy banishment the Shame:
Who to more Knowledge younger didst arrive
Then forward Glaucias, Yet art still alive:
Whose Masters oft (for suddenly you grew
To equall and passe those, and need no new)
To see how soon, how farre, thy wit could reach,
Sat down to wonder, when they came to teach:
Oft then would Scaliger contented be
To leave to mend all times to polish thee,
And of that paines effect did highlier boast
Then had he gaind all that his Fathers lost:
When thy Capella read (which till thy hand
Had cleared, few grave and learnd did understand,
Though well thou mightst at such a tender age
Have made ten lessons of the plainest page)
That King of Criticks stood amaz'd to see
A worke so like his own set forth by thee:
Nor with lesse wonder on that worke did look
Then if the Bridegroome had begot the Book,
To whom thy age and act seem'd to unite
At once the youth of Phœbus and the light:
Thence lov'd thee with a never dying flame,
As the adopted Heire, to all his Fame;
Paid him with just and with eternall praise.
Who gaind more honour from one verse of thine,
Then all the Canës of his Princely line:
In that he joy'd, and that oppos'd to all,
To Titius spight, to hungrie Schoppius gall,
To what (with cause disguis'd) Bonarccius writes,
To Debios rage, and all his Loyolties:
But though to thee each Tongue, each Art be known,
As all thy time that had imploid alone,
Though Truth doe naked to thy fight appeare,
And scarce can we doubt more then thou canst cleare:
Though thou at once dost different glories joyne,
A loftie Poet, and a deep Divine;
Canst in the purest phrase cloath solid sence,
Scevola's law in Tullies eloquence;
Though thy employments have exceld thy Pen,
Shew'd thee much skil'd in books, but more in men,
And prov'd thou canst at the same easie rate
Correct an Author and uphold a State;
Though this rare praise doe a full truth appeare
To Spaine and Germany, who more doe feare
(Since thou thy aid did'st to that State afford)
The Swedish counsels then the Swedish sword:
All this yet of thy worth makes but a part,
And we admire thy head lesse then thy heart,
(Though Woo'd) with thy ungratefull Countries foes,
When their chiefe Ministers strove to entice,
And would have bought thee at what ever price:
Since all our praise and wonder is too small
For each of these, what shall we give for all?
All that we can, we doe; a Pen divine,
And differing onely in the Tongue from thine,
Doth thy choice labours with successe reherse,
And to another world transplants thy verse,
At the same height to which before they rose,
When they forc'd wonder from unwilling foes:
Now Thames with Ganges may thy labours praise,
Which there breed Faith, and here devotion raise.
Though your acquaintance all of worth pursue,
And count it honour to be known to you,
I dare affirme your Catalogue does grace
No one who better doth deserve a place:
None hath a larger heart, a fuller head,
For he hath seen as much as you have read:
The neerer Countries past, his steps have prest
The new found World, and trod the Sacred East,
Where his brows due the loftie Palmes doe rise,
Where the proud Pyramids invade the skies;
And, as all think who his rare friendship own,
Deserves no lesse a journey to be known.
Travel'd not farre, but was a prisoner long,
To that by Tempest forc'd; nor did his voice
Relate his Fate: His travels were his choice,
And all those numerous Realmes, returnd agen,
Anew he travel'd over with his Pen,
And, Homer to himselfe, doth entertaine
With truths more usefull, then his Muse could faine.
Next Ovids Transformations he translates
With so rare Art, that those which he relates
Yeeld to this transmutation, and the change
Of men to Birds and Trees appeares not strange:
Next the Poetick parts of Scripture, on
His loome he weaves, and Iob and Solomon
His Pen restores with all that heavenly Quire;
And shakes the dust from Davids solemn Lyre:
For which from all with just consent he wan
The title of the English Buchanan.
Now to you both, great Paire, indebted thus
And like to be, be pleas'd to succour us
With some instructions, that it may be said,
Though nothing crost, we would that all were paid.
Let us at least be honest bankrouts thought:
For now we are so farre from offering ought,
Which from our Mighty debt some part might take,
Alas! we cannot tell what wish to make:
For though you boast not of the wealth of Inde,
And though no Diadems your temples binde,
No power or riches equals your renown;
And they which weare such Wreaths, need not a Crown.
Soules which your high and sacred raptures know,
Nor by sinne humbled to our thoughts below,
Who whil'st of Heaven the glories they recite
Finde it within, and feele the joyes they write,
Above the reach or stroke of Fortune live,
Not valuing what she can inflict or give:
For low desires depresse the loftiest state,
But who lookes down on vice, looks down on Fate.
And like to be, be pleas'd to succour us
With some instructions, that it may be said,
Though nothing crost, we would that all were paid.
Let us at least be honest bankrouts thought:
For now we are so farre from offering ought,
Which from our Mighty debt some part might take,
Alas! we cannot tell what wish to make:
And though no Diadems your temples binde,
No power or riches equals your renown;
And they which weare such Wreaths, need not a Crown.
Soules which your high and sacred raptures know,
Nor by sinne humbled to our thoughts below,
Who whil'st of Heaven the glories they recite
Finde it within, and feele the joyes they write,
Above the reach or stroke of Fortune live,
Not valuing what she can inflict or give:
For low desires depresse the loftiest state,
But who lookes down on vice, looks down on Fate.
Falkland.
| Christs Passion | |