The Crowne of All Homers Workes/'The Worke that I was borne to doe, is done'

by George Chapman

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The Worke that I was borne to doe, is done.
Glory to him, that the Conclusion
Makes the beginning of my life: and Neuer
Let me be said to liue, till I liue Euer.
Where's the outliuing of my Fortunes then,
Ye errant vapors of Fames Lernean Fenn?
That (like possest stormes) blast all; not in Herde
With your abhorr'd heads: who, because casher'de
By Men, for Monsters; thinck Men, Monsters All,
That are not of your pyed Hood, and your Hall.
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$When you are nothing but the scumm of things,
And must be cast off: Drones, that haue no stings,
Nor any more soule, then a stone hath wings.
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$Auant ye Haggs; your Hates, and Scandalls are,
The Crownes, and Comforts of a good Mans Care;
By whose impartiall Perpendiculare;
All is extuberance, and excretion All,
That you your Ornaments, and glories call.
Your wrie Mouthes censure right? your blister'd Tongues,
That licke but itches? and whose vlcerous Lungs
Come vp at all things permanent, and sound?
O you (like flies in Dreggs) in Humors droun'd;
Your loues, like Atoms, lost in gloomie Ayre;
I would not retriue with a wither'd Haire.
Hate, and cast still your stings then; for your kisses
Betray but Truth; and your Applaud's, are Hisses.
To see our supercilious wizerds frowne;
Their faces falne like Foggs; and coming downe,
Stincking the Sunn out; make me shine the more:
And like a checkt flood, beare aboue the shore,
That their prophane Opinions faine would set,
To what they see not; know not; nor can let.
Yet then, our learn'd Men, with their Torrents come
Roring from their forc't Hills, all crown'd with fome,
That one not taught like them, should learne to know
Their Greeke rootes, & from thence the Groues that grow,
Casting such rich shades, from great Homers wings:
That first, and last, command the Muses springs.
Though he's best Scholler, that through paines and vows;
Made his owne Master onely; all things know's.
Nor pleades my poore skill; forme; or learned Place;
But dantlesse labor, constant Prayer, and Grace.
And what's all their skill, but vast varied reading?
As if brode-beaten High-waies had the leading
To Truths abstract, and narrow Path, and Pit?
Found in no walke, of any worldly wit.
And without Truth; all's onely sleight of hand,
Or our Law-learning, in a Forraine Land;
Embroderie spent on Cobwebs, Braggart show
Of Men that all things learne; and nothing know.
For Ostentation, humble Truth still flies,
And all confederate fashionists, defies.
And as some sharpe-browd Doctor, (English borne;)
In much learn'd Latine Idioms can adorne
A verse with rare Attractions, yet become
His English Muse, like an Arachnean Loome,
Wrought spight of Pallas; and therein bewrates
More tongue then truth, beggs, and adopts his Bayes;
So Ostentation, hee bee neuer so
Larded with labour, to suborne his showe;
Shall soothe within him, but a bastard soule,
No more Heauen heyring, then Earths sonne the Moule.
But as in dead Calmes, emptiest smokes arise
Vncheckt, and free; vp, strait into the skies;
So drousie Peace, that in her humor steepes
All she affects, lets such rise while she sleepes.
Many, and most Men, haue of wealth least store,
But None the gracious shame that fits the Pore;
$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$So most learn'd Men, enough are Ignorant;
But few the grace haue, to confesse their want,
Till Liues, and Learnings, come concomitant.
For from Mens knowledges; their Liues-Acts flowe;
Vaineglorious Acts then, vaine proue all they know.
As Night, the life-enclining starrs, best showes;
So liues obscure, the starriest soules disclose.
For me; let iust Men iudge by what I show
In Acts expos'd, how much I erre, or knowe;
And let not Enuie, make all worse then nought
With her meere headstrong, and quite braineles thought:
Others, for doing nothing; giuing All;
And bounding all worth in her bursten Gall.
God and my deare Redeemer, rescue Me
From Mens immane, and mad Impietie;
And by my life and soule, (sole knowne to them)
Make me of Palme, or Yew, an Anadem.
And so, my sole God, the thrice sacred Trine,
Beare all th'Ascription, of all Me and Mine.

 

Supplico tibi Domine, Pater et Dux rationis nostræ; vt Nostræ Nobilitatis recordemur, qua tu nos ornasti; et vt tu nobis prestò sis, vt jis qui per sese mouentur; vt et à Corporis contagio, Brutorumque affectuum repurgemur; eosque superemus, atque tegamus; et, sicut decet; pro instrumentis jis vtamur. Deinde, vt nobis Adiuneto sis; ad accuratam rationis nostræ correctionem; et coniunctionem cum jis qui verè sunt, per lucem veritatis. Et tertiùm, Saluatori supplex oro; vt ab oculis animorum nostrorum, caliginem prorsus abstergas; vt norimus bene, qui Deus, aut Mortalis habendus, Amen.

 

Sine honore viuam, Nulloque Numero ero.