Another ye will see, summed up in whom Apollo's rarest learning will ye see, Which doth the semblance of itself assume, When spread through countless others it may be; In him 'tis greater, in him it doth come To such a height of excellence that he, The Licentiate MOSQUERA[161] well can claim To rival e'en Apollo's self in fame. Behold! yon prudent man who doth adorn And deck with sciences his limpid breast, Shrinks not from gazing on the fountain born In wisdom's waters from our mountain's crest; In the clear peerless stream he doth not scorn To quench his thirst, and thus thou flourishest, DOMINGO DE BECERRA,[162] here on earth, For all recount the mighty doctor's worth. Words I might speak of famous ESPINEL[163] That pass beyond the wit of human kind, Concerning all the sciences that dwell, Nurtured by Phoebus' breath, within his mind; But since my tongue the least part cannot tell Of the great things that in my soul I find, I say no more save that he doth aspire To Heaven, whether he take his pen or lyre. If ruddy Phoebus ye would fain espy With blood-red Mars in equal balance weighed, On great CARRANZA[164] seek to cast an eye, In whom each hath his constant dwelling made; With such discretion, art, dexterity, Hath he his power o'er pen and lance displayed That the dexterity once cleft apart He hath brought back to science and to art. Of LÁZARO LUIS IRANZO,[165] lyre Than mine must needs be tuned with better art, To sing the good that Heaven doth inspire, The worth that Heaven fosters in his heart: By Mars' and Phoebus' path he doth inspire To climb unto the lofty heights apart Where human thought scarce reacheth, yet, despite Fortune and fate, he will reach them aright. BALTASAR DE ESCOBAR,[166] who doth adorn The famèd shores of Tiber's stream to-day, Whom the broad banks of hallowed Betis mourn, Their beauty lost when he is far away, A fertile wit, if he perchance return To his beloved native land, I pay Unto his youthful and his honoured brow The laurel and the honour that I owe. JUAN SANZ, called DE ZUMETA,[167] with what power, What honour, palm, or laurel shall be crowned, If from the Indian to the ruddy Moor No muse as his so perfect can be found? Here I anew his fame to him restore By telling you, my shepherds, how profound Will be Apollo's joy at any praise Which ye may bring to swell ZUMETA'S praise.