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So shall we joy, when all whom beasts and worms Have turn'd to their own substances and forms: Whom earth to earth, or fire hath chang'd to fire, We shall behold more than at first entire; As now we do, to see all thine thy own In this my Muse's resurrection, Whose scatter'd parts from thy own race, more wounds Hath suffer'd, than Acteon from his hounds; Which first their brains, and then their belly fed, And from their excrements new poets bred. But now thy Muse enraged, from her urn, Like ghosts of murder'd bodies, does return To accuse the murderers, to right the stage, And undeceive the long-abused age, Which casts thy praise on them, to whom thy wit Gives not more gold than they give dross to it: Who, not content, like felons, to purloin, Add treason to it, and debase the coin. But whither am I stray'd : I need not raise Trophies to thee from other men's dispraise; Nor is thy fame on lesser ruins built, Nor need thy juster title the foul guilt Of eastern kings, who, to secure their reign, Must have their brothers, sons, and kindred slain. Then was Wit’s empire at the fatal height, When labouring and sinking with its weight, From thence a thousand lesser poets sprung, Like petty princes from the fall of Rome; When Jonson, Shakespeare, and thyself did sit, And sway’d in the triumvirate of wit— Yet what from Jonson's oil and sweat did flow, Or what more easy Nature did bestow On Shakespeare's gentler Muse, in thee full grown Their graces both appear, yet so that none Can say, here Nature ends, and Art begins,
But mixt like th' elements, and born like twins,
So interwove, so like, so much the same,
TO SIR RICHARD FANSHAJW, Upon his TRANSLATION OF
Such is our pride, our folly, or our fate, That few but such as cannot write, translate.
But what in them is want of art or voice,
Two kings like Saul, much taller than the rest,
PASSION OF DIDO FOR FYEAS.
Having at large declar'd Jove's embassy, Cyllenius from AEneas straight doth fly : He loth to disobey the god's command, Nor willing to forsake this pleasant land, Asham'd the kind Eliza to deceive, But more afraid to take a solemn leave; He many ways his labouring thoughts revolves, But fear o'ercoming shame at last resolves (Instructed by the god of thieves •) to steal Himself away, and his escape conceal. He calls his captains, bids them rig the fleet, That at the port they privately should meet; And some disembled colour to project, That Dido should not their design suspect: But all in vain he did his plot disguise; No art a watchful lover can surprise. She the first motion finds; love though most Yet always to itself seems unsecure. [sure, That wicked fame which their first love proclaim’d, Foretells the end; the queen with rage inflam'd Thus greets him: “Thou dissembler,would'st thou Out of my arms by stealth perfidiously [fly Could not the hand I plighted, nor the love, Northee the fate of dying Dido move : And in the depth of winter, in the night, Dark as thy black designs to take thy flight, To plow the raging seas to coasts unknown, The kingdom thou pretend'st to, not thy own | Were Troy restor'd thou should'st mistrust a wind False as thy vows, and as thy heart unkind. Fly'st thou from me By these dear drops of brine I thee adjure, by that right hand of thine, By our espousals, by our marriage-bed, If all my kindness aught have merited; If ever I stood fair in thy esteem, From ruin me and my lost house redeem. Cannot my prayers a free acceptance find, Nor my tears soften an obdurate mind? My fame of chastity, by which the skies I reach'd before, by the e extinguish'd dies.
Into my horders now Iarbus falls, And my revengeful brother scales my walls; The wild Numidians will advantage take, For thee both Tyre and Carthage me forsake. Hadst thou before thy flight but left with me A young Æneas, who, resembling thee, Might in my sight have sported, I had then Not wholly lost, nor quite deserted been ; Bythee, no more my husband, but my guest, Betray'd to mischiefs, of which death's the least.” With fixed looks he stands, and in his breast By Jove's command, his struggling care supprest. “Great queen, your favours and desert so great, Though numberless, I never shall forget; No time, until myself I have forgot, Out of my heart Eliza's name shall blot: But my unwilling flight the gods inforce, And that must justify our sad divorce. Since I must you forsake, would Fate permit, To my desires I might my fortune fit; Troy to her ancient splendour I would raise, And where I first began, would end my days. But since the Lycian lots, and Delphic god Have destin'd Italy for our abode; Since you proud Carthage (fled from Tyre) enjoy, Why should not Latium us receive from Troy As for my son, my father's angry ghost Tells me his hopes by my delays are crost, And mighty Jove's ambassador appear'd With the same message, whom I saw and heard; We both are griev'd when you or I complain, But much the more when all complaints are vain: I call to witness all the gods, and thy Beloved head, the coast of Italy Against my will I seek.” [eyes, Whilst thus he speaks, she rolls her sparkling Surveys him round, and thus incens'd replies; “Thy mother was no goddess, northy stock From Dardanus, but in some horrid rock, Perfidious wretch, rough Caucasus thee bred, And with their milk Hyrcanian tigers fed. Dissimulation I shall now forget, And my reserves of rage in order set, Could all my prayers and soft entreaties force Sighs from his breast, or from h’s look remorse. Where shall I first complain? can mighty Jove Or Juno such inpieties approve The just Astraea sure is fled to Hell; Nor more in Earth, nor Heaven itself will dwell. Oh Faith ! him on my coasts by tempest cast, Receiving madly, on my throne I plac'd; His men from famine, and his fleet from fire I rescued: Now the Lycian lots conspire With Phoebus; now Jove's envoy though the air Brings dismal tidings; as if such low care Could reach their thoughts, or their repose disturb Thou art a false impostor, and a fourbe; Go, go, pursue thy kingdom through the main, I hope, if Heaven her justice still retain, Thou shalt be wreck'd, or cast upon some rock, Where thou the name of Dido shalt invoke:
I'll follow thee in funeral flames, when dead
“O Jove,” she cry'd, “and shall he thus delude
pear'd; Through all the court the fright and clamours
rise, Which the whole city fills with fears and cries
As loud as if her Carthage, or old Tyre The foe had entered, and had set on fire. Amazed Anne with speed ascends the stairs And in her arms her dying sister rears: “Did you for this, yourself and me beguile? For such an end did I erect this pile : Did you so much despiseme, in this fate Myself with you not to associate 2 Yourself and me, alas! this fatal wound The senate, and the people, doth confound. , I'll wash her wound with tears, and at her - death My lips from hers shall draw her parting - breath.” Then with her vest the wound she wipes and dries; Thrice with her arm the queen attempts to rise, But her strength failing, falls into a swound, Life's last efforts yet striving with her wound; Thrice on her bed she turns, with wandering sight Seeking, she groans when she beholds the light. Then Juno pitying her disastrous fate, Sends Iris down, her pangs to mitigate. (Since, if we fall before th' appointed day, Nature and Death continue long their fray.) Iris descends; “This fatal lock (says she) To Pluto I bequeath, and set thee free;” Then clips her hair: cold numbness straight bereaves Her corpse of sense, and th’ air her soul receives.
Going this last summer to visit the Wells, I took an occasion (by the way) to wait upon an ancient and honourable friend of mine, whom I found diverting his (then solitary) retirement with the Latin original of this translation, which (being out of print) I had never seen before : when I looked upon it, I saw that it had formerly passed through two learned hands not without approbation; which were Ben Johnson and Sir Keneim Digby; but I found it (where I shall never find myself) in the service of a better master, the earl of Bristol, of whom 1 shall say no more; for 1 love not to improve the honour of the living by impairing that of the dead; and my own profession hath taught me not to erect new superstructures upon an old ruin. He was pleased to recommend it to me for my companion at the Wells, where I liked the entertainment it gave me so well, that I undertook to redeem it from an obsolete English disguise, wherein an old monk had clothed it, and to make as becoming a new vest for it as I could.
The author was a person of quality in Italy, his name Mancini, which family matched since with the sister of cardinal Mazarine; he was contemporary to Petrarch and Mantuan, and not long before Torquato Tasso ; which shows that the age they lived in was not so unlcarned as that which preceded, or that which followed.
The author wrote upon the four cardinal vir