LITMIR.BIZ

Скачать книгу

       That the most precious work of all men's minds

       In 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 is

       With her own beauties, all the suffrages

       Of others I omit, and would more fain

       That Homer for himself should be belov'd,

       Who ev'ry sort of love-worth did contain.

       Which how I have in my conversion prov'd

       I must confess I hardly dare refer

       To reading judgments, since, so gen'rally,

       Custom hath made ev'n th' ablest agents err [1]

       In these translations; all so much apply

       Their pains and cunnings word for word to render

       Their patient authors, when they may as well

       Make fish with fowl, camels with whales, engender,

       Or their tongues' speech in other mouths compell.

       For, ev'n as diff'rent a production

       Ask Greek and English, since as they in sounds

       And letters shun one form and unison;

       So have their sense and elegancy bounds

       In their distinguish'd natures, and require

       Only a judgment to make both consent

       In sense and elocution; and aspire,

       As well to reach the spirit that was spent

       In his example, as with art to pierce

       His grammar, and etymology of words.

       But as great clerks can write no English verse, [2]

       Because, alas, great clerks! English affords,

       Say they, no height nor copy; a rude tongue,

       Since 'tis their native; but in Greek or Latin

       Their 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 make

       The ample transmigration to be shown

       In nature-loving Poesy; so the brake

       That those translators stick in, that affect

       Their word-for-word traductions (where they lose

       The free grace of their natural dialect,

       And shame their authors with a forcéd gloss)

       I laugh to see; and yet as much abhor [3]

       More license from the words than may express

       Their 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 Messines

       That into Tuscan turns him; and the gloss

       Grave Salel makes in French, as he translates;

       Which, for th' aforesaid reasons, all must do;

       And see that my conversion much abates

       The 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 sun

       Should be attempted by the erring stars,

       They fail'd to search his deep and treasurous heart;

       The cause was, since they wanted the fit key

       Of Nature, in their downright strength of Art. [4]

       With Poesy to open Poesy:

       Which, in my poem of the mysteries

       Reveal'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 got

       My blind side in the form my verse puts on;

       Much like a dung-hill mastiff, that dares not

       Assault the man he barks at, but the stone

       He throws at him takes in his eager jaws,

       And spoils his teeth because they cannot spoil.

       The long verse hath by proof receiv'd applause

       Beyond 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 maintain

       Too long our shorter authors to rehearse.

       And, for our tongue that still is so impair'd [5]

       By travelling linguists, I can prove it clear,

       That no tongue hath the Muse's utt'rance heir'd

       For verse, and that sweet music to the ear

       Strook 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 collision

       Fall as they break their necks; their bastard rhymes

       Saluting as they justled in transition,

       And set our teeth on edge; nor tunes, nor times

       Kept in their falls; and, methinks, their long words

       Shew in short verse as in a narrow place

       Two opposites should meet with two-hand swords

       Unwieldily, without or use or grace.

       Thus having rid the rubs, and strow'd these flow'rs

       In our thrice-sacred Homer's English way,

       What rests to make him yet more worthy yours?

       To cite more praise of him were mere delay

       To your glad searches for what those men found

       That gave his praise, past all, so high a place;

       Whose virtues were so many, and so crown'd

       By all consents divine, that, not to grace

       Or add increase to them, the world doth need

       Another Homer, but ev'n to rehearse

       And number them, they did so much exceed.

       Men thought him not a man; but that his verse

       Some mere celestial nature did adorn;

       And all may well conclude it could not be,

       That for the place where any

Скачать книгу