Let fame, and let the memory I possess, For ever famous make the memory Of him who hath transformed to loveliness The glory of our Christian poesy; The knowledge and the charm let all confess, From the dayspring to where the day doth die, Of great FRANCISCO DE GUZMÁN,[149] whose are The arts of Phoebus as the arts of war. Of the Captain SALCEDO[150] 'tis quite clear That his celestial genius doth attain Unto the point most lofty, keen and rare, That can be fancied by the thought of man; If I compare him, him I do compare Unto himself--Comparisons, 'tis plain, Are useless, and to measure worth so true, All measures must be faulty, or askew. By reason of the wit and curious grace Of TOMÁS DE GRACIÁN,[151] I pray, permit That I should choose within this vale a place Which shall his virtue, knowledge, worth, befit; And if it run with his deserts apace, 'Twill be so lofty and so exquisite That few, methinks, may hope with him to vie, His genius and his virtues soar so high. Fain would BAPTISTA DE VIVAR[152] you praise, Sisters, with unpremeditated lyre; Such grace, discretion, prudence, he displays, That, muses though ye be, ye can admire; He will not hymn Narcissus in his lays Nor the disdains that lonely Echo tire, But he will sing his cares which had their birth 'Twixt sad forgetfulness and hope of mirth. Now terror new, now new alarm and fear Cometh upon me and o'erpowereth me, Only because I would, yet cannot bear Unto the loftiest heights of dignity Grave BALTASAR, who doth as surname wear TOLEDO,[153] though my fancy whispereth me That of his learned quill the lofty flight Must bear him soon to the empyrean height. There is a mind wherein experience shows That knowledge findeth fitting dwelling-place, Not only in ripe age amidst the snows, But in green years, in early youthful days; With no man shall I argue, or oppose A truth so plain, the more because my praise, If it perchance unto his ears be brought, Thine honour hath, LOPE DE VEGA,[154] sought. Now holy Betis to my fancy's eye Presents himself with peaceful olive crowned, Making his plaint that I have passed him by,-- His angry words now in my ears resound-- He asks that in this narrative, where I Speak of rare intellects, place should be found For those that dwell upon his banks, and so With voice sonorous I his will shall do. But what am I to do? For when I seek To start, a thousand wonders I divine.