And lastly, great Prince, mark and pardon me:— As in a flourishing and ripe fruit-tree, Nature hath made the bark to save the bole, The bole the sap, the sap to deck the whole With leaves and branches, they to bear and shield The useful fruit, the fruit itself to yield Guard to the kernel, and for that all those, Since out of that again the whole tree grows; So in our tree of man, whose nervy root Springs in his top, from thence ev’n to his foot There runs a mutual aid through all his parts, All join’d in one to serve his queen of arts,[1] In which doth Poesy like the kernel lie Obscur’d, though her Promethean faculty Can create men and make ev’n death to live, For which she should live honour’d, kings should give Comfort and help to her that she might still Hold up their spirits in virtue, make the will That governs in them to the pow’r conform’d, The pow’r to justice, that the scandals, storm’d Against the poor dame, clear’d by your fair grace, Your grace may shine the clearer. Her low place, Not showing her, the highest leaves obscure. Who raise her raise themselves, and he sits sure Whom her wing’d hand advanceth, since on it Eternity doth, crowning virtue, sit. All whose poor seed, like violets in their beds, Now grow with bosom-hung and hidden heads; For whom I must speak, though their fate convinces Me worst of poets, to you best of princes. By the most humble and faithful implorer for all the graces to your highness eternized by your divine Homer. Geo. Chapman. [1] Queen of arts—the soul. TO THE SACRED FOUNTAIN OF PRINCES, SOLE EMPRESS OF BEAUTY AND VIRTUE, ANNE, QUEEN OF ENGLAND, ETC. With whatsoever honour we adorn Your royal issue, we must gratulate you, Imperial Sovereign; who of you is born Is you, one tree make both the bole and bow. If it be honour then to join you both To such a pow’rful work as shall defend Both from foul death and age’s ugly moth, This is an honour that shall never end. They know not virtue then, that know not what The virtue of defending virtue is; It comprehends the guard of all your State, And joins your greatness to as great a bliss. Shield virtue and advance her then, great Queen, And make this book your glass to make it seen. Your Majesty’s in all subjection most humbly consecrate, GEO. CHAPMAN. TO THE READER Lest with foul hands you touch these holy rites, And with prejudicacies too profane, Pass Homer in your other poets’ slights, Wash here. In this porch to his num’rous fane, Hear ancient oracles speak, and tell you whom You have to censure. First then Silius hear, Who thrice was consul in renowned Rome, Whose verse, saith Martial, nothing shall out-wear. SILIUS ITALICUS, LIB. XIII. 777