JOSUAH SYLVESTER

343 [from Saluste du Bartas’ Devine Weekes]

The cunning Painter, that with curious care, Limning a Land-scape, various, rich, and rare, Hath set a Worke in all and every part, Invention, Judgement, Nature, Use, and Art; 5          And hath at length (t’immortalize his name) With wearie Pencill perfected the same;               Forgets his paines; and inly fill’d with glee,              Still on his Picture gazeth greedilie.        First, in a Mead he marks a frisking Lambe, 10       Which seemes (though dumb) to bleat unto the                Dam:

By an excellent Similitode of a Painter delighted with the sight of a curious table which hee hath lately finished: our Poet showeth how God Resteth the seaventh Day: and saw (as saith the Scripture) that all that be had made was Good.

            Then he observes a Wood, seeming to wave:
Then th’hollow bosome of some hideous Cave:
Heere a High-way, and there a narrow Path:
Heere Pines, there Oakes, torne by tempestuous

           wrath:

15        Heere, from a craggie Rocks steep-hanging bosse
(Thrumb’d halfe with Ivie, halfe with crisped

           Mosse)

             A silver Brooke in broken streames doth gush,
And head-long downe the horned Cliffe doth rush;
Then winding thence above and under ground,

20       A goodly Garden it be-moateth round:
There on his knee, behind a Box-Tree shrinking,
A skilfull Gunner, with his left eye winking,
Levells directly at an Oake hard by,
Whereon a hundred groaning Culvers crie;

25       Downe falls the Cock, up from the Touch-pan flies
A ruddie flash that in a moment dies,
Off goes the Gunne, and through the Forrest rings
The thundering bullet borne on fierie wings.
Heere, on a Greene, two Striplings, stripped light,

30       Runne for a prize with laboursome delight;
A dustie Cloud about their feet doth floe
(Their feet, and head, and hands, and all doo goe)
They swelt in sweat; and yet the following Rout
Hastens their hast with many a cheerefull shout.

35       Heere, sixe pyed Oxen under painfull yoake
Rip up the folds of Ceres Winter Cloake.
Heere, in the shade, a prettie Sheppardesse
Drives softly home her bleating happinesse;

            Still as she goes, she spinnes; and as she spinnes,

40       A man would thinke some Sonnet she beginnes.
Heere runnes a River, there springs forth a

           Fountaine,

             Heere vailes a Valley, there ascends a Mountaine,
Heere smoakes a Castle, there a Citie fumes,
And heere a Shipp upon th’Ocean Loomes.

45       In briefe, so lively, Art hath Nature shap’t,
That in his Worke the Work-mans selfe is rapt,
Unable to looke off; for looking still,
The more he lookes, the more he findes his skill:

So th’Architect (whose glorious Workmanships,    50       My cloudie Muse doth but too-much eclipse)   Having, with pain-lesse paine, and care-lesse care,   In these Sixe Dayes, finisht the Table faire   And infinite of th’ Universall Ball,   Resteth This Day, t’admire himselfe in All:

God rested the seaventh Day, and contemplates on his Works.

55       And, for a season, eying nothing els,
Joyes in his Worke, sith all his Worke excells.
(If my dull, stutting, frozen eloquence
May dare conjecture of his high Intents).