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. To his friend Maister Robert Peterson Gent. 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. Go publishe it, and dreade not scowling Momus poisond spite. 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 To foggie mistes, and seas that beare their ysie crust, shall burne: