Till all be circular, and round as heauen.
And lastly, great Prince, marke and pardon me;
As in a flourishing, and ripe fruit Tree,
Nature hath made the barke to saue the Bole;
The Bole, the sappe; the sappe, to decke the whole
With leaues and branches; they to beare and shield
The vsefull fruité; the fruité it selfe to yeeld
Guard to the kernell, and for that all those
(Since out of that againe, the whole Tree growes:)
So, in our Tree of man, whose neruie Roote
Springs in his top; from thence euen to his foote,
There runnes a mutuall aide, through all his parts,
All ioyn’d in one to serue his Queene of Arts.
In which, doth Poesie, like the kernell lie
Obscur’d; though her Promethean facultie
Can create men, and make euen death to liue;
For which she should liue honor’d; Kings should giue
Comfort and helpe to her, that she might still
Hold vp their spirits in vertue; make the will,
That gouernes in them, to the power conform’d;
The power to iustice; that the scandals, storm’d
Against the poore Dame, clear’d by your faire Grace,
Your Grace may shine the clearer. Her low place,
Not shewing her, the highest leaues obscure.
Who raise her, raise themselues: and he sits sure,
Whom her wing’d hand aduanceth; since on it
Eternitie doth (crowning Vertue) sit.
All whose poore seed, like violets in their beds,
Now grow with bosome-hung, and hidden heads:
For whom I must speake (though their Fate conuinces
Me, worst of Poets) to you, best of Princes.
By the most humble and faithfull implorer for
all the graces to your highnesse eternised
by your Diuine Homer.
Geo. Chapman.
MEMORIAL VERSES TO PRINCE HENRY: WHOLE WORKS OF HOMER.
TO THE IMORTALL MEMORIE, OF THE INCOMPARABLE HEROE, HENRYE PRINCE OF WALES.
Thy Toomb, Arms, Statue; All things fitt to fall
At foote of Deathe; And worship Funerall
Forme hath bestow’d: for Forme, is nought too deare:
Thy solid Virtues yet; eternis’d here;
My bloode, and wasted spirritts haue onely founde
Commanded Cost: And broke so riche a grounde,
(Not to interr; But make thee euer springe)
As Arms, Toombs, Statues; euerye Earthy Thinge,
Shall fade and vanishe into fume before:
What lasts; thriues lest: yet; welth of soule is poore;
And so tis kept: Not thy thrice sacred will
Sign’d with thy Deathe; moues any to fullfill
Thy Just bequests to me:Thow, dead. then; J
Liue deade, for giuing thee Eternitie:Ad Famam
To all Tymes future, This Tymes Marck extend;
Homer, no Patrone founde; Nor Chapman freind:
Ignotus nimis omnibus;
Sat notus, moritur sibi:
AN ANAGRAM ON HENRY: THE ILIADS.
AN ANAGRAM OF THE NAME OF OVR DRAD PRINCE, MY MOST
Gracious and sacred Mœcœnas;
HENRYE PRINCE OF WALES
OVR SUNN, HEYR, PEACE, LIFE.
Be to vs as thy great Name doth import,
(Prince of the people;) nor suppose it vaine,
That in this secret, and prophétique sort,
Thy Name and Noblest Title doth containe
So much right to vs; and as great a good.
Nature doth nothing vainly; much lesse Art
Perfecting Nature. No spirit in our blood,
But in our soules discourses beares a part.
What Nature giues at random in the one,
In th’other, orderd, our diuine part serues.
Thou art not HEYR then, to our state alone;
But SVNN, PEACE, LIFE. And what thy powre deserues
Of vs, and our good, in thy vtmost strife;
Shall make thee to thy selfe, HEYR, SVNN, PEACE, LIFE.
TO THE SACRED FOVNTAINE OF PRINCES; SOLE EMPRESSE OF BEAVTIE AND VERTUE; ANNE,
Queene of England, &c.
With whatsoeuer Honour we adorne
Your Royall issue; we must gratulate yow
Imperiall Soueraigne. Who of you is borne,
Is you; One Tree, make both the Bole, and Bow.
If it be honour then to ioyne you both
To such a powerfull worke, as shall defend
Both from foule Death, and Ages ougly Moth;
This is an Honor, that shall neuer end.
They know not vertue then, that know not what
The vertue of defending vertue is:
It comprehends the guard of all your State,
And ioynes your Greatnesse to as great a Blisse.
Shield vertue, and aduance her then, Great Queene;
And make this Booke your Glasse, to make it seene.
Your Maiesties in all subiection most humbly consecrate,
Geo. Chapman.
TO THE READER.
Lest with foule hands you touch these holy Rites;
And with preiudicacies too prophane,
Passe Homer, in your other Poets sleights;
Wash here. In this Porch to his numerous Phane,
Heare ancient Oracles speake, and tell you whom
You haue to censure. First then Silius heare,
Who thrice was Consult in renowned Rome;
Whose verse (saith Martiall) nothing shall out-weare.
Silius Italicus. Lib. 13.
He, in Elysium, hauing cast his eye
Vpon the figure of a Youth, whose haire
With purple Ribands braided curiously,
Hung on his shoulders wondrous bright and faire;
Said, Virgine, What is he whose heauenly face
Shines past all others, as the Morne the Night;
Whom many maruelling soules, from place to place,
Pursue, and haunt, with sounds of such delight?
Whose countenance (wer’t not in the Stygian shade)
Would make me, questionlesse, beleeue he were
A verie God. The learned Virgine made
This answer: If thou shouldst beleeue it here,
Thou shouldst not erre: he well deseru’d to be
Esteem’d a God; nor held his so-much breast
A little presence of the Deitie:
His verse comprisde earth, seas, starres, soules at rest:
In song, the Muses he did equalise;
In honor, Phoebus: he was onely soule;
Saw all things spher’d in Nature, without eyes,
And raisde your Troy vp to the starrie Pole.
Glad Scipio, viewing well this Prince of Ghosts,
Said, O if Fates would giue this Poet leaue,
To sing the acts done by the Romane Hoasts;
How much beyond, would future times receiue
The same facts, made by any other knowne?
O blest Æacidesl to haue the grace
That out of such a mouth, thou shouldst be showne
To wondring Nations, as enricht the race
Of all times future, with what he did know:
Thy vertue, with his verse, shall euer grow.
Now heare an Angell sing our Poets Fame;
Whom Fate, for his diuine song, gaue that name.
Angelus Politianus, in Nutricia.
More liuing, then in old Demodocus,
Fame glories to waxe yong in Homers verse.
And as when bright Hyperion holds to vs
His golden Torch; we see the starres disperse
And euery way Hie heauen; the pallid Moone
Euen almost vanishing before his sight:
So with the dazling beames of Homers Sunne,
All other ancient Poets lo
se their light.
Whom when Apollo heard, out of his starre,
Singing the godlike Acts of honor’d men;
And equalling the actuall rage of warre,
With onely the diuine straines of his pen;
He stood amaz’d, and freely did confesse
Himselfe was equall’d in Maeonides.
Next, heare the graue and learned Plinie vse
His censure of our sacred poets Muse.
Plin. Nat hist lib. 7. Cap 29.
Turnd into verse; that no Prose may come neare Homer.
Whom shall we choose the glorie of all wits,
Held through so many sorts of discipline,
And such varietie of workes, and spirits;
But Grecian Homer? like whom none did shine,
For forme of worke and matter. And because
Our proud doome of him may stand iustified
By noblest iudgements; and receiue applause
In spite of enuie, and illiterate pride;
Great Macedon, amongst his matchlesse spoiles,
Tooke from rich Persia (on his Fortunes cast)
A Casket finding (full of precious oyles)
Form’d all of gold, with wealthy stones enchac’t:
He tooke the oyles out; and his nearest friends
Askt, in what better guard it might be vsde?
All giuing their conceipts, to seuerall ends;
He answerd; His affections rather chusde
An vse quite opposite to all their kinds:
And Homers bookes should with that guard be seru’d;
That the most precious worke of all mens minds,
In the most precious place, might be preseru’d.
The Fount of wit was Homer; Learnings Syre,
And gaue Antiquitie, her liuing fire.
Volumes of like praise, I could heape on this,
Of men more ancient, and more learn’d then these:
But since true Vertue, enough louely is
With her owne beauties; all the suffrages
Of others I omit; and would more faine
That Homer, for himselfe, should be belou’d
Who euerie sort of loue-worth did containe.
Which now I haue in my conuersion prou’d,
I must confesse, I hardly dare referre
To reading iudgements; since, so generally,
Custome hath made euen th’ablest Agents erre
In these translations; all so much apply
Their paines and cunnings, word for word to render
Their patient Authors; when they may as well,
Make fish with fowle, Camels with Whales engender;
Or their tongues speech, in other mouths compell.
For, euen as different a production
Aske Greeke and English; since as they in sounds,
And letters, shunne one forme, and vnison;
So haue their sense, and elegancie bounds
In their distinguisht natures, and require
Onely a iudgement to make both consent,
In sense and elocution; and aspire
As well to reach the spirit that was spent
In his example; as with arte to pierce
His Grammar, and etymologie of words.
But, as great Clerkes, can write no English verse;
Because (alas! great Clerks) English affords
(Say they) no height, nor copie; a rude toung,
(Since tis their Natiue): but in Greeke or Latine
Their wits are rare; for thence true Poesie sprong:
Though them (Truth knowes) they haue but skil to chat-in,
Compar’d with that they might say in their owne;
Since thither th’others full soule cannot make
The ample transmigration to be showne
In Nature-louing Poesie: So the brake
That those Translators sticke in, that affect
Their word-for-word traductions (where they lose
The free grace of their naturall Dialect
And shame their Authors, with a forced Glose)
I laugh to see; and yet as much abhorre
More licence from the words, then may expresse
Their full compression, and make cleare the Author.
From whose truth, if you thinke my feet digresse,.
Because I vse needfull Periphrases;
Reade Valla, Hessus, that in Latine Prose,
And Verse conuert him; reade the Messines,
That into Tuscan turns him; and the Glose
Graue Salel makes in French, as he translates:
Which (for th’aforesaide reasons) all must doo;
And see that my conuersion much abates
The licence they take, and more showes him too:
Whose right, not all those great learn’d men haue done
(In some maine parts), that were his Commentars:
But (as the illustration of the Sunne
Should be attempted by the erring starres)
They fail’d to search his deepe, and treasurous hart.
The cause was, since they wanted the fit key
Of Nature, in their down-right strength of Art;
With Poesie, to open Poesie.
Which in my Poeme of the mysteries
Reueal’d in Homer, I will clearely proue;
Till whose neere birth, suspend your Calumnies,
And farre-wide imputations of selfe loue.
Tis further from me, then the worst that reades;
Professing me the worst of all that wright:
Yet what, in following one, that brauely leades,
The worst may show, let this proofe hold the light.
But grant it cleere: yet hath detraction got
My blinde side, in the forme, my verse puts on;
Much like a dung-hill Mastife, that dares not
Assault the man he barkes at; but the stone
He throwes at him, takes in his eager iawes,
And spoyles his teeth because they cannot spoyle.
The long verse hath by proofe receiu’d applause
Beyond each number: and the foile,
That squint-ey’d Enuie takes, is censur’d plaine.
For, this long Poeme askes this length of verse,
Which I my selfe ingenuously maintaine
Too long, our shorter Authors to reherse.
And, for our tongue, that still is so empayr’d
By trauailing linguists; I can proue it cleare,
That no tongue hath the Muses vtterance heyr’d
For verse, and that sweet Musique to the eare
Strooke out of rime, so naturally as this;
Our Monosyllables, so kindly fall
And meete, opposde in rime, as they did kisse:
French and Italian, most immetricall;
Their many syllables, in harsh Collision,
Fall as they brake their necks; their bastard Rimes,
Saluting as they iustl’d in transition,
And set our teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor times
Kept in their falles. And me thinkes, their long words
Shew in short verse, as in a narrow place,
Two opposities should meet, with two-hand swords
Vnweildily, without or vse or grace.
Thus hauing rid the rubs, and strow’d these flowers
In our thrice sacred Homers English way;
What rests to make him, yet more worthy yours?
To cite more prayse of him, were meere delay
To your glad searches, for what those men found,
That gaue his praise, past all, so high a place:
Whose vertues were so many, and so cround,
By all consents, Diuine; that not to grace,
Or adde increase to them, the world doth need
Another Homer; but euen to rehearse
And number them: they did so much exceed;
Men thought him not a man; but that his verse
Some meere celestiall nat
ure did adorne.
And that all may well conclude, it could not be,
That for the place where any man was borne,
So long, and mortally, could disagree
So many Nations, as for Homer striu’d,
Vnlesse his spurre in them, had bene diuine.
Then end their strife, and loue him (thus reuiu’d)
As borne in England: see him ouer-shine
All other-Countrie Poets; and trust this,
That whose-soeuer Muse dares vse her wing
When his Muse flies, she will be truss’t by his;
And show as if a Bernacle should spring
Beneath an Eagle. In none since was seene
A soule so full of heauen as earth’s in him.
O! if our moderne Poesie had beene
As louely as the Ladie he did lymne,
What barbarous worldling, groueling after gaine,
Could vse her louely parts, with such rude hate,
As now she suffers vnder euery swaine?
Since then tis nought but her abuse and Fate,
That thus empaires her; what is this to her
As she is reall? or in naturall right?
But since in true Religion men should erre
As much as Poesie, should th’abuse excite
The like contempt of her Diuinitie?
And that her truth, and right saint sacred Merites,
In most Hues, breed but reuerence formally;
What wonder is’t if Poesie inherits
Much less obseruance; being but Agent for her,
And singer of her lawes, that others say?
Forth then ye Mowles, sonnes of the earth abhorre her;
Keepe still on in the durty vulgar way,
Till durt receiue your soules, to which ye vow;
And with your poison’d spirits bewitch our thrifts.
Ye cannot so despise vs as we you.
Not one of you, aboue his Mowlehill lifts
His earthy Minde; but, as a sort of beasts,
Kept by their Guardians, neuer care to heare
Their manly voices; but when, in their fists,
They breathe wild whistles; and the beasts rude eare
Heares their Curres barking; then by heapes they flie,
Headlong together: So men, beastly giuen,
The manly soules voice (sacred Poesie,
Whose Hymnes the Angels euer sing in heauen)
Contemne, and heare not: but when brutish noises
(For Gaine, Lust, Honour, in litigious Prose)
Are bellow’d-out, and cracke the barbarous voices
Of Turkish Stentors; O! ye leane to those,
Like itching Horse, to blockes, or high May-poles;
And breake nought but the wind of wealth, wealth, All
In all your Documents; your Asinine soules
The Complete Poetical Works of George Chapman Page 42
