  Al Signor Ruberto Peterson, esortandolo A tradurre in Inghilese il Galateo Ben posson dirsi avventurate carte Quelle ch' el dotto, e gentil Casa spese: Quand' in breve discors' À insegnar prese Del honesta creanza la prima arte. Poi che tanto si apprezz' in ogni parte Quel ch' ei ne scrisse, e ch' ei si ben intese E ch' ogn' un con maniÉre piÙ cortese Dal bel trattato suo tosto si parte. Esso À Donn' e donzelle, & cavallieri Non sol d'Italia: ma di Francia, e Spagna Di gentilezza mostr' i modi veri. Venga per voi felice anco in Brettagna E parli Inglese ne Palazzi alteri Del regn' invitto che 'l Tamigi bagna. Francesco Pucci Le creanze, e i costumi, Tanto splendenti lumi, Ch'a gli huomini fan l'huom superiore, Eccoli tratti fore De l'Italico seno E piantati ne l'Anglico terreno. Or se li goda ogniun, che porta amore A 'l suo decoro, e a 'l suo compiuto onore. Alessandro Citolini Edouardus Cradoccus, S. Theologiae Doctor & Professor Moribus quisquis rudis est ineptis, Nescit is vitam placidam tueri: Nemini gratus, sociusque nulli Charus habetur. Quisquis at pulchre simul & decore Se gerit, mentis studio repellens Rusticos mores, popularis ille Jure videtur. Hoc Petersoni liber hic venustus Praestat, ostendens habitu decoro Possit ut quisque probitate splendens Utilis esse. Idque dum magno satagit labore, Italum fecit patria loquela Hunc perornatas meus hic amicus Fundere voces. Thomas Drant, Archedeacon in praise of this Booke An happy turne that Casa once did hatche, Of haviours choice this booke in Ital' phrase: An Archebishop, and writer without matche In this he was, and peereles pight with praise. Such he his lore so well and wise doth lend: It heare ne reade we can, but must amend. This booke by Tiber, and by Po hath past, Through all Italia Townes and Country lands. Iberus, throughe thy Spanishe coasts as fast It after yoade: and Gauls it held in hands, Throughe Rhenus realmes it spred in prosperous speede, To Lordes and Ladies reaching comly reede. It Peterson, to Britain eyes doth bring Translated true and trimme: and fit to frame Faire maners fine for men. This prety Ring Bedecketh feate our life: discourse and game It ordereth apt with grace. The booke is grave, Eke wise and good, for civil folke to have. Thy Galateo (Peterson) doth shrowd him selfe to long. What? shall it sleepe Endymions yeares? thou dost thy countrie wrong. She hath a childs parte, Plato saies, and with the Author cries, That both thy toile, and this her gaine, may reare his skill to skies. What thoughe thou thinke thy present small, for view of gallant ones This litle Diamond, shall out prize, a quarry full of stones. And Noble Cyrus (Man) will daine cold water in Sinaetaes hand: Then fray not, if thy booke, in pure, unfiled termes doe stand. Translatours can not mount: for though, their armes with wings be spread, In vaine they toile to take the flight, their feete are clogd with lead. This faith, that makes the Authour, speake his owne in language new: Renoumes the more, then if thou blazdst it out, in painted hew. For, serpents lurke in greenest grasse, and with a garishe gloze, The Strumpet pounts in pride, where matrones marche in comelie clothes. And though Archilochus Iambes fly, or Theons taunts doe bite: Thinke, winds doe haunt the gallauntst trees, and Envy things of state. And lightning checks, Cerauniaes tops, whome no hils els do mate. The best have borne the bob, and Zoiles brutes durst geve the charge: But Zoile hangs, and Callisthen keepes in cage for talking large. And yet, wordes they be winde: but as erst Plinies Draconite No toole could pierce or carve: or as the gemme Chalazias hight, Keepes cold, though it in Aetna frie, or Adiantons flowers Drawes not a drop, though skies distill downe everlasting showers: So good desert, doth chalenge good reporte by reasons rate, Though oft they beare the checkes and taunts, they cannot take the mate. Yet seeke Mecaenas wings to shroude thy toile: Virgilio Found his Augustus: Ennie thou maist finde thy Scipio. This trump shall sound thy praise. Sir Phoebus golden rayes shall turne And lumpishe lowte, with country shares shall salte Sea fome divide, And sowe his graine in Afrik Syrtes that wallow every tide, Before this worke shall die: which neither Joves thundering threate, Nor fierie flames shall waste, nor rustie, cankred age shall freate. Nolo Persium nolo Laelium. Your friend. I. Stoughton Student The vine is praisde, that daintie grape doth give Although the fruite more please then holsome be, Each fertil tree, is favord for the fruite, So is the hearb that gallant is to see. If this be trueth, he needes must merit well, That gives us groundes to guide our erring wayes, And trades us truely in the golden maze, Where vertue growes, and courtlike manner stayes. Galateo first did frame this golden booke In Ital land. From thence it went to Spaine. And after came into the coasts of Fraunce. And nowe at last in England doth remaine. The Authour sure deserveth more renoume, That so could spend his time for our behoofe, Then my poore wit or cunning can recite, As thou thy selfe by reading shalt finde proofe. And as the Authour merits passing well, So doth my friend deserve as greate a meede: That makes a worke so hard to understand, So easie that each simple may it reede. I say no more: for (lo) it were in vaine To praise good wine by hanging up a bushe, The best will give (I hope) my friende his due. As for the bad, I way them not a rushe. Thomas Browne of L. I. Gent. |
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