TO THE READERLest with foul hands you touch these holy rites,And with prejudicacies too profane,Pass Homer in your other poets’ slights,Wash here. In this porch to his num’rous fane,Hear ancient oracles speak, and tell you whomYou have to censure. First then Silius hear,Who thrice was consul in renowned Rome,Whose verse, saith Martial, nothing shall out-wear.SILIUS ITALICUS, LIB. XIII. 777He, in Elysium having cast his eyeUpon the figure of a youth, whose hair,With purple ribands braided curiously,Hung on his shoulders wond’rous bright and fair,Said: “Virgin, what is he whose heav’nly faceShines past all others, as the morn the night;Whom many marvelling souls, from place to place,Pursue and haunt with sounds of such delight;Whose count’nance (were’t not in the Stygian shade)Would make me, questionless, believe he wereA very God?” The learned virgin madeThis answer: “If thou shouldst believe it here,Thou shouldst not err. He well deserv’d to beEsteem’d a God; nor held his so-much breastA little presence of the Deity,His verse compris’d earth, seas, stars, souls at rest;In song the Muses he did equalize,In honour Phœbus. He was only soul,Saw all things spher’d in nature, without eyes,And rais’d your Troy up to the starry pole.”Glad Scipio, viewing well this prince of ghosts,Said: “O if Fates would give this poet leaveTo sing the acts done by the Roman hosts,How much beyond would future times receiveThe same facts made by any other known!O blest Æacides, to have the graceThat out of such a mouth thou shouldst be shownTo wond’ring nations, as enrich’d the raceOf all times future with what he did know!Thy virtue with his verse shall ever grow.”Now hear an Angel sing our poet’s fame,Whom fate, for his divine song, gave that name.ANGELUS POLITIANUS, IN NUTRICIAMore living than in old Demodocus,Fame glories to wax young in Homer’s verse.And as when bright Hyperion holds to usHis golden torch, we see the stars disperse,And ev’ry way fly heav’n, the pallid moonEv’n almost vanishing before his sight;So, with the dazzling beams of Homer’s sun,All other ancient poets lose their light.Whom when Apollo heard, out of his star,Singing the godlike act of honour’d men,And equalling the actual rage of war,With only the divine strains of his pen,He stood amaz’d and freely did confessHimself was equall’d in Mæonides.Next hear the grave and learned Pliny useHis censure of our sacred poet’s muse.Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. 7. cap. 29.Turned into verse, that no prose may come near Homer.Whom shall we choose the glory of all wits,Held through so many sorts of disciplineAnd such variety of works and spirits,But Grecian Homer, like whom none did shineFor form of work and matter? And becauseOur proud doom of him may stand justifiedBy noblest judgments, and receive applauseIn spite of envy and illiterate pride,Great Macedon, amongst his matchless spoilsTook from rich Persia, on his fortunes cast,A casket finding, full of precious oils,Form’d all of gold, with wealthy stones enchas’d,He took the oils out, and his nearest friendsAsk’d in what better guard it might be us’d?All giving their conceits to sev’ral ends,He answer’d: “His affections rather choos’dAn use quite opposite to all their kinds,And Homer’s books should with that guard be serv’d,That the most precious work of all men’s mindsIn the most precious place might be preserv’d.The Fount of Wit was Homer, Learning’s Sire,And gave antiquity her living fire.”Volumes of like praise I could heap on this,Of men more ancient and more learn’d than these,But since true virtue enough lovely isWith her own beauties, all the suffragesOf others I omit, and would more fainThat Homer for himself should be belov’d,Who ev’ry sort of love-worth did contain.Which how I have in my conversion prov’dI must confess I hardly dare referTo reading judgments, since, so gen’rally,Custom hath made ev’n th’ ablest agents err[2]In these translations; all so much applyTheir pains and cunnings word for word to renderTheir patient authors, when they may as wellMake fish with fowl, camels with whales, engender,Or their tongues’ speech in other mouths compell.For, ev’n as diff’rent a productionAsk Greek and English, since as they in soundsAnd letters shun one form and unison;So have their sense and elegancy boundsIn their distinguish’d natures, and requireOnly a judgment to make both consentIn sense and elocution; and aspire,As well to reach the spirit that was spentIn his example, as with art to pierceHis grammar, and etymology of words.But as great clerks can write no English verse,[3]Because, alas, great clerks! English affords,Say they, no height nor copy; a rude tongue,Since ’tis their native; but in Greek or LatinTheir writs are rare, for thence true Poesy sprung;Though them (truth knows) they have but skill to chat in,Compar’d with that they might say in their own;Since thither th’ other’s full soul cannot makeThe ample transmigration to be shownIn nature-loving Poesy; so the brakeThat those translators stick in, that affectTheir word-for-word traductions (where they loseThe free grace of their natural dialect,And shame their authors with a forcéd gloss)I laugh to see; and yet as much abhor[4]More license from the words than may expressTheir full compression, and make clear the author;From whose truth, if you think my feet digress,Because I use needful periphrases,Read Valla, Hessus, that in Latin prose,And verse, convert him; read the MessinesThat into Tuscan turns him; and the glossGrave Salel makes in French, as he translates;Which, for th’ aforesaid reasons, all must do;And see that my conversion much abatesThe license they take, and more shows him too,Whose right not all those great learn’d men have done,In some main parts, that were his commentors.But, as the illustration of the sunShould be attempted by the erring stars,They fail’d to search his deep and treasurous heart;The cause was, since they wanted the fit keyOf Nature, in their downright strength of Art.[5]With Poesy to open Poesy:Which, in my poem of the mysteriesReveal’d in Homer, I will clearly prove;Till whose near birth, suspend your calumnies,And far-wide imputations of self-love.’Tis further from me than the worst that reads,Professing me the worst of all that write;Yet what, in following one that bravely leads,The worst may show, let this proof hold the light.But grant it clear; yet hath detraction gotMy blind side in the form my verse puts on;Much like a dung-hill mastiff, that dares notAssault the man he barks at, but the stoneHe throws at him takes in his eager jaws,And spoils his teeth because they cannot spoil.The long verse hath by proof receiv’d applauseBeyond each other number; and the foil,That squint-ey’d Envy takes, is censur’d plain;For this long poem asks this length of verse,Which I myself ingenuously maintainToo long our shorter authors to rehearse.And, for our tongue that still is so impair’d[6]By travelling linguists, I can prove it clear,That no tongue hath the Muse’s utt’rance heir’dFor verse, and that sweet music to the earStrook out of rhyme, so naturally as this;Our monosyllables so kindly fall,And meet oppos’d in rhyme as they did kiss;French and Italian most immetrical,Their many syllables in harsh collisionFall as they break their necks; their bastard rhymesSaluting as they justled in transition,And set our teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor timesKept in their falls; and, methinks, their long wordsShew in short verse as in a narrow placeTwo opposites should meet with two-hand swordsUnwieldily, without or use or grace.Thus having rid the rubs, and strow’d these flow’rsIn our thrice-sacred Homer’s English way,What rests to make him yet more worthy yours?To cite more praise of him were mere delayTo your glad searches for what those men foundThat gave his praise, past all, so high a place;Whose virtues were so many, and so crown’dBy all consents divine, that, not to graceOr add increase to them, the world doth needAnother Homer, but ev’n to rehearseAnd number them, they did so much exceed.Men thought him not a man; but that his verseSome mere celestial nature did adorn;And all may well conclude it could not be,That for the place where any man was born,So long and mortally could disagreeSo many nations as for Homer striv’d,Unless his spur in them had been divine.Then end their strife and love him, thus receiv’d,As born in England; see him over-shineAll other-country poets; and trust this,That whosesoever Muse dares use her wingWhen his Muse flies, she will be truss’d by his,And show as if a bernacle should springBeneath an eagle. In none since was seenA soul so full of heav’n as earth’s in him.O! if our modern Poesy had beenAs lovely as the lady he did limn,What barbarous worldling, grovelling after gain,Could use her lovely parts with such rude hate,As now she suffers under ev’ry swain?Since then ’tis nought but her abuse and Fate,That thus impairs her, what is this to herAs she is real, or in natural right?But since in true Religion men should errAs much as Poesy, should the abuse exciteThe like contempt of her divinity,And that her truth, and right saint-sacred merits,In most lives breed but rev’rence formally,What wonder is’t if Poesy inheritsMuch less observance, being but agent for her,And singer of her laws, that others say?Forth then, ye moles, sons of the earth, abhor her,Keep still on in the dirty vulgar way,Till dirt receive your souls, to which ye vow,And with your poison’d spirits bewitch our thrifts.Ye cannot so despise us as we you;Not one of you above his mole-hill liftsHis earthy mind, but, as a sort of beasts,Kept by their guardians, never care to hearTheir manly voices, but when in their fistsThey breathe wild whistles, and the beasts’ rude earHears their curs barking, then by heaps they flyHeadlong together; so men, beastly giv’n,The manly soul’s voice, sacred Poesy,Whose hymns the angels ever sing in heav’n,Contemn and hear not; but when brutish noises,For gain, lust, honour, in litigious proseAre bellow’d out, and crack the barbarous voicesOf Turkish stentors, O, ye lean to those,Like itching horse to blocks or high may-poles;And break nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, allIn all your documents; your asinine souls,Proud of their burthens, feel not how they gall.But as an ass, that in a field of weedsAffects a thistle, and falls fiercely to it,That pricks and galls him, yet he feeds, and bleeds,Forbears a while, and licks, but cannot woo itTo leave the sharpness; when, to wreak his smart,He beats it with his foot, then backward kicks,Because the thistle gall’d his forward part;Nor leaves till all be eat, for all the pricks,Then falls to others with as hot a strife,And in that honourable war doth wasteThe tall heat of his stomach, and his life;So in this world of weeds you worldlings tasteYour most-lov’d dainties, with such war buy peace,Hunger for torment, virtue kick for vice,Cares for your states do with your states increase,And though ye dream ye feast in Paradise,Yet reason’s daylight shews ye at your meatAsses at thistles, bleeding as ye eat.
Lest with foul hands you touch these holy rites,And with prejudicacies too profane,Pass Homer in your other poets’ slights,Wash here. In this porch to his num’rous fane,Hear ancient oracles speak, and tell you whomYou have to censure. First then Silius hear,Who thrice was consul in renowned Rome,Whose verse, saith Martial, nothing shall out-wear.
SILIUS ITALICUS, LIB. XIII. 777
He, in Elysium having cast his eyeUpon the figure of a youth, whose hair,With purple ribands braided curiously,Hung on his shoulders wond’rous bright and fair,Said: “Virgin, what is he whose heav’nly faceShines past all others, as the morn the night;Whom many marvelling souls, from place to place,Pursue and haunt with sounds of such delight;Whose count’nance (were’t not in the Stygian shade)Would make me, questionless, believe he wereA very God?” The learned virgin madeThis answer: “If thou shouldst believe it here,Thou shouldst not err. He well deserv’d to beEsteem’d a God; nor held his so-much breastA little presence of the Deity,His verse compris’d earth, seas, stars, souls at rest;In song the Muses he did equalize,In honour Phœbus. He was only soul,Saw all things spher’d in nature, without eyes,And rais’d your Troy up to the starry pole.”Glad Scipio, viewing well this prince of ghosts,Said: “O if Fates would give this poet leaveTo sing the acts done by the Roman hosts,How much beyond would future times receiveThe same facts made by any other known!O blest Æacides, to have the graceThat out of such a mouth thou shouldst be shownTo wond’ring nations, as enrich’d the raceOf all times future with what he did know!Thy virtue with his verse shall ever grow.”
Now hear an Angel sing our poet’s fame,Whom fate, for his divine song, gave that name.
ANGELUS POLITIANUS, IN NUTRICIA
More living than in old Demodocus,Fame glories to wax young in Homer’s verse.And as when bright Hyperion holds to usHis golden torch, we see the stars disperse,And ev’ry way fly heav’n, the pallid moonEv’n almost vanishing before his sight;So, with the dazzling beams of Homer’s sun,All other ancient poets lose their light.Whom when Apollo heard, out of his star,Singing the godlike act of honour’d men,And equalling the actual rage of war,With only the divine strains of his pen,He stood amaz’d and freely did confessHimself was equall’d in Mæonides.
Next hear the grave and learned Pliny useHis censure of our sacred poet’s muse.
Plin. Nat. Hist. lib. 7. cap. 29.Turned into verse, that no prose may come near Homer.
Whom shall we choose the glory of all wits,Held through so many sorts of disciplineAnd such variety of works and spirits,But Grecian Homer, like whom none did shineFor form of work and matter? And becauseOur proud doom of him may stand justifiedBy noblest judgments, and receive applauseIn spite of envy and illiterate pride,Great Macedon, amongst his matchless spoilsTook from rich Persia, on his fortunes cast,A casket finding, full of precious oils,Form’d all of gold, with wealthy stones enchas’d,He took the oils out, and his nearest friendsAsk’d in what better guard it might be us’d?All giving their conceits to sev’ral ends,He answer’d: “His affections rather choos’dAn use quite opposite to all their kinds,And Homer’s books should with that guard be serv’d,That the most precious work of all men’s mindsIn the most precious place might be preserv’d.The Fount of Wit was Homer, Learning’s Sire,And gave antiquity her living fire.”
Volumes of like praise I could heap on this,Of men more ancient and more learn’d than these,But since true virtue enough lovely isWith her own beauties, all the suffragesOf others I omit, and would more fainThat Homer for himself should be belov’d,Who ev’ry sort of love-worth did contain.Which how I have in my conversion prov’dI must confess I hardly dare referTo reading judgments, since, so gen’rally,Custom hath made ev’n th’ ablest agents err[2]In these translations; all so much applyTheir pains and cunnings word for word to renderTheir patient authors, when they may as wellMake fish with fowl, camels with whales, engender,Or their tongues’ speech in other mouths compell.For, ev’n as diff’rent a productionAsk Greek and English, since as they in soundsAnd letters shun one form and unison;So have their sense and elegancy boundsIn their distinguish’d natures, and requireOnly a judgment to make both consentIn sense and elocution; and aspire,As well to reach the spirit that was spentIn his example, as with art to pierceHis grammar, and etymology of words.But as great clerks can write no English verse,[3]Because, alas, great clerks! English affords,Say they, no height nor copy; a rude tongue,Since ’tis their native; but in Greek or LatinTheir writs are rare, for thence true Poesy sprung;Though them (truth knows) they have but skill to chat in,Compar’d with that they might say in their own;Since thither th’ other’s full soul cannot makeThe ample transmigration to be shownIn nature-loving Poesy; so the brakeThat those translators stick in, that affectTheir word-for-word traductions (where they loseThe free grace of their natural dialect,And shame their authors with a forcéd gloss)I laugh to see; and yet as much abhor[4]More license from the words than may expressTheir full compression, and make clear the author;From whose truth, if you think my feet digress,Because I use needful periphrases,Read Valla, Hessus, that in Latin prose,And verse, convert him; read the MessinesThat into Tuscan turns him; and the glossGrave Salel makes in French, as he translates;Which, for th’ aforesaid reasons, all must do;And see that my conversion much abatesThe license they take, and more shows him too,Whose right not all those great learn’d men have done,In some main parts, that were his commentors.But, as the illustration of the sunShould be attempted by the erring stars,They fail’d to search his deep and treasurous heart;The cause was, since they wanted the fit keyOf Nature, in their downright strength of Art.[5]With Poesy to open Poesy:Which, in my poem of the mysteriesReveal’d in Homer, I will clearly prove;Till whose near birth, suspend your calumnies,And far-wide imputations of self-love.’Tis further from me than the worst that reads,Professing me the worst of all that write;Yet what, in following one that bravely leads,The worst may show, let this proof hold the light.But grant it clear; yet hath detraction gotMy blind side in the form my verse puts on;Much like a dung-hill mastiff, that dares notAssault the man he barks at, but the stoneHe throws at him takes in his eager jaws,And spoils his teeth because they cannot spoil.The long verse hath by proof receiv’d applauseBeyond each other number; and the foil,That squint-ey’d Envy takes, is censur’d plain;For this long poem asks this length of verse,Which I myself ingenuously maintainToo long our shorter authors to rehearse.And, for our tongue that still is so impair’d[6]By travelling linguists, I can prove it clear,That no tongue hath the Muse’s utt’rance heir’dFor verse, and that sweet music to the earStrook out of rhyme, so naturally as this;Our monosyllables so kindly fall,And meet oppos’d in rhyme as they did kiss;French and Italian most immetrical,Their many syllables in harsh collisionFall as they break their necks; their bastard rhymesSaluting as they justled in transition,And set our teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor timesKept in their falls; and, methinks, their long wordsShew in short verse as in a narrow placeTwo opposites should meet with two-hand swordsUnwieldily, without or use or grace.Thus having rid the rubs, and strow’d these flow’rsIn our thrice-sacred Homer’s English way,What rests to make him yet more worthy yours?To cite more praise of him were mere delayTo your glad searches for what those men foundThat gave his praise, past all, so high a place;Whose virtues were so many, and so crown’dBy all consents divine, that, not to graceOr add increase to them, the world doth needAnother Homer, but ev’n to rehearseAnd number them, they did so much exceed.Men thought him not a man; but that his verseSome mere celestial nature did adorn;And all may well conclude it could not be,That for the place where any man was born,So long and mortally could disagreeSo many nations as for Homer striv’d,Unless his spur in them had been divine.Then end their strife and love him, thus receiv’d,As born in England; see him over-shineAll other-country poets; and trust this,That whosesoever Muse dares use her wingWhen his Muse flies, she will be truss’d by his,And show as if a bernacle should springBeneath an eagle. In none since was seenA soul so full of heav’n as earth’s in him.O! if our modern Poesy had beenAs lovely as the lady he did limn,What barbarous worldling, grovelling after gain,Could use her lovely parts with such rude hate,As now she suffers under ev’ry swain?Since then ’tis nought but her abuse and Fate,That thus impairs her, what is this to herAs she is real, or in natural right?But since in true Religion men should errAs much as Poesy, should the abuse exciteThe like contempt of her divinity,And that her truth, and right saint-sacred merits,In most lives breed but rev’rence formally,What wonder is’t if Poesy inheritsMuch less observance, being but agent for her,And singer of her laws, that others say?Forth then, ye moles, sons of the earth, abhor her,Keep still on in the dirty vulgar way,Till dirt receive your souls, to which ye vow,And with your poison’d spirits bewitch our thrifts.Ye cannot so despise us as we you;Not one of you above his mole-hill liftsHis earthy mind, but, as a sort of beasts,Kept by their guardians, never care to hearTheir manly voices, but when in their fistsThey breathe wild whistles, and the beasts’ rude earHears their curs barking, then by heaps they flyHeadlong together; so men, beastly giv’n,The manly soul’s voice, sacred Poesy,Whose hymns the angels ever sing in heav’n,Contemn and hear not; but when brutish noises,For gain, lust, honour, in litigious proseAre bellow’d out, and crack the barbarous voicesOf Turkish stentors, O, ye lean to those,Like itching horse to blocks or high may-poles;And break nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, allIn all your documents; your asinine souls,Proud of their burthens, feel not how they gall.But as an ass, that in a field of weedsAffects a thistle, and falls fiercely to it,That pricks and galls him, yet he feeds, and bleeds,Forbears a while, and licks, but cannot woo itTo leave the sharpness; when, to wreak his smart,He beats it with his foot, then backward kicks,Because the thistle gall’d his forward part;Nor leaves till all be eat, for all the pricks,Then falls to others with as hot a strife,And in that honourable war doth wasteThe tall heat of his stomach, and his life;So in this world of weeds you worldlings tasteYour most-lov’d dainties, with such war buy peace,Hunger for torment, virtue kick for vice,Cares for your states do with your states increase,And though ye dream ye feast in Paradise,Yet reason’s daylight shews ye at your meatAsses at thistles, bleeding as ye eat.