Читать книгу The Totall Discourse of the Rare Adventures & Painefull Peregrinations - William Lithgow - Страница 7

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To his singular Friend Maister Lithgow.

The double travell (Lithgow) thou hast tane,

One of thy Feete, the other of thy Brane,

Thee, with thy selfe; doe make for to contend,

Whether the earth, thou’st better pac’d or pend.

Would Malagaes sweet liquor had thee crownd,

And not its trechery made thy joynts unsound,

For Christ, King, Countrey, what thou there indur’d

Not them alone, but therein all injur’d:

Their tort’ring Rack, arresting of thy pace

Hath barr’d our hope, of the worlds other face:

Who is it sees this side so well exprest,

That with desire, doth not long for the rest.

Thy travell’d Countreyes so described be,

As Readers thinke, they doe each Region see,

Thy well compacted matter, ornat stile,

Doth them oft, in quicke sliding Time beguile,

Like as a Mayde, wandring in Floraes Boures

Confind to small time, of few flitting houres,

Rapt with delight, of her eye-pleasing treasure,

Now culling this, now that Flower, takes such pleasure;

That the strict time, whereto she was confin’d

Is all expir’d: whiles she thought halfe behind,

Or more remayn’d: So each attracting line

Makes them forget the time, they doe not tyne:

But since sweet future travell, is cut short,

Yet loose no time, now with the Muses sport;

That reading of thee, after times may tell,

In Travell, Prose, and Verse, thou didst excell.

Patrick Hannay.

To his dearely respected friend William Lithgow.

Shall Homer sing of stray’d Ulysses toyle?

From Greece to Memphis, in parch’d Ægypts soyle:

Flank’d with old Piramides, and melting Nyle,

Which was the furthest, he attayn’d the while:

A length of no such course, by ten to one,

Which thou thy selfe pedestrially hast gone:

Then may thy latter dayes out-strip old times,

That now hast seene, Earths circulary Climes:

And far beyond Ulysses, reach’d without him,

Both East and West, yea, North and South about him:

Which here exactly, thou hast sweetly sung

In ornat style, in our quick-flowing tongue;

Of Lawes, Religion, customes, manners, rites

Of Kings and people: life-sublimest sprits

In policies and government: Earths spaces

From soyle to soyle, in thy long wandring traces.

But what my soule applaudes! and must admire

Which ev’ry zealous Christian, should desire

To learne and know; is this, Spaines tortring Racke

And torments sharpe, which for the Gospells sake

Thou constantly didst beare: O joyfull payne!

Whilst Grace in those sad pangs, did thee sustaine,

With love and patience: O blest lively faith!

That for Christs cause, condemned was to death.

Live then (O living Martyr!) still renown’d

Mongst Gods elect; whose constancy hath crown’d

Reformd Religion: And let Heavens thy mind

Blesse with moe joyes, than thou didst torments find.

Walter Lyndesay.

To my deare Friend, Countreyman and Condisciple, William Lithgow.

Rest Noble Spirits in your Native Soyles,

Whose high bred thoughts on deare bought sights are bent

Renowned Lithgow by his brave attempt

Hath eas’d your bodies of a world of toyles.

Not like to some who wrongfully retayne

Gods rarest gifts, within themselves ingrost,

But what thou hast attain’d with care and cost.

Thou yeelds it gratis, to the world againe.

Upon the bankes of wonder-breeding Clide,

To these designes thy heart did first assent

One way, indeed, to give thy selfe content,

But more to satisfie a world beside.

Thy first attempt in excellence of worth,

Beyond the reach of my conceit’s confinde,

But this thy second Pilgrimage of minde,

Where all thy paynes are to the world set forth;

In Subject, Frame, in Methode, Phrase, and Stile,

May match the most unmatched in this Ile:

But this renownes thee most, t’have still possest,

A constant Heart, within a wandring Brest.

Robert Allen.

To his kind friend and Countreyman W. Lithgow.

Thy well adventur’d Pilgrimage I prayse,

Although perform’d with perrill and with paine,

Which thou hast pen’d, in more than vulgar phrase

So curiously, so sweetly, smooth, and plaine,

Yet whilst I wondring call to minde againe.

That thou durst goe, like no man else that lives;

By Sea and land, alone, in cold and raine,

Through Bandits, Pirats, and Arabian Theeves,

I doe admire thee; yet a good event

Absolves a rash designe: So hardest things,

(When humane reason cannot give consent

T’ attempt) attain’d; the greater glory brings.

Then Friend, though praise & paines rest both with thee,

The use redounds unto the world, and mee.

John Murray.

In commendation of the Author William Lithgow.

Come curious eyes, that pierce the highest scopes

Of sublime stiles: come satisfie your hopes

And best desires; in this prompe Pilgrimes paines

Whose deepe experience, all this worke sustaines

With solid substance, of a Subject deare

And pregnant Method; laid before you heare

In open bonds: Come take your hearts delight

In all the colours, of the worlds great sight.

Come thanke his travells; praise his painfull Pen

That sends this light, to live, mongst living men;

To teach your children, when he, and you are laid

As low as dust; how scepterd Crownes are swaid;

Most Kingdomes government: How ruld with Lawes

The South world is: their rites, Religious sawes:

Townes Topographick view, and Rivers courses,

Fonts, Forts, and Cittadales: scorch’d Asiaes sources:

All you may see, and much more, than I name

Seal’d in the Authors, never-dying fame.

Eleazar Robertson.

In Commendation of this History.

Thou art not hatch’d, forth from anothers braine,

Nor yet Collect’d, from others toiles thy sight,

The selfe-same Man, that bred Thee beares the paine

Of thy long birth: O weary wandring Wight!

It’s carefull he, by Knowledge gives thee light,

And deepe experience to adorne thy name;

Both Pilgrime, Pen-man, so thy Maister right;

Who best can judge, in what concernes the same:

Then free-borne toile, flee forth with winged Fame

Thy Countries Virgin, thou the first penn’d Booke

That in his Soile, did ever Pilgrime frame

Of curious Travailes; whereon the Learned looke:

Then Knit thy Maiden brow, with Garlands greene,

The first of times, the last this Age hath Seene.

Alexander Boyde.