Pennae gloria perennis
To EDWARDE DIER Esquier.
When frowning fatall dame, that stoppes our course in fine,
The thred of noble SURREYS life, made hast for to untwine.
APOLLO chang'd his cheare, and lay'd awaie his lute,
And PALLAS, and the Muses sad, did weare a mourninge sute.
And then, the goulden pen, in case of sables cladde,
Was lock'd in chiste of Ebonie, and to Parnassus had.
But, as all times do chaunge, so passions have their space;
And cloudie skies at lengthe are clear'd, with Phoebus chearefull face.
For, when that barren verse made Muses voide of mirthe:
Behoulde, LUSINA sweetelie sounge, of SIDNEYS joyfull birthe.
Whome mightie JOVE did blesse, with graces from above:
On whome, did fortune frendlie smile, and nature most did love.
And then, behoulde, the pen, was by MERCURIUS sente,
Wherewith, hee also gave to him, the gifte for to invente.
That, when hee first began, his vayne in verse to showe.
More sweete then honie, was the stile, that from his penne did flowe.
Wherewith, in youthe hee us'd to bannishe idle fittes;
That nowe, his workes of endlesse fame, delighte the worthie wittes.
No haulting verse hee writes, but matcheth former times,
No Cherillus, he can abide, nor Poëttes patched rimes.
What volumes hath hee writte, that rest among his frendes,
Which needes no other praise at all, eche worke it selfe comendes.
So, that hee famous lives, at home, and farre, and neare;
For those that live in other landes, of SIDNEYS giftes doe heare.
And suche as Muses serve, in darkenes meere doe dwell;
If that they have not seene his workes, they doe so farre excell.
Wherefore, for to extoll his name in what I might,
This Embleme lo, I did present, unto this woorthie Knight.
Who, did the same refuse, as not his proper due:
And at the first, his sentence was, it did belonge to you.
Wherefore, lo, fame with trompe, that mountes unto the skye:
And, farre above the highest spire, from pole, to pole dothe flye.
Heere hovereth at your will, with pen adorn'd with baies:
Which for you bothe, shee hath prepar'd, unto your endlesse praise.
The laurell leafe for you, for him, the goulden pen;
The honours that the Muses give, unto the rarest men.
Wherefore, proceede I praye, unto your lasting fame;
For writinges last when wee bee gonne, and doe preserve our name.
And whilst wee tarrye heere, no treasure can procure,
The palme that waites upon the pen, which ever doth indure.
Two thousand yeares, and more, HOMERUS wrat his booke;
And yet, the same doth still remayne, and keepes his former looke.
Wheare Aegypte spires bee gonne, and ROME doth ruine feele,
Yet, both begonne since he was borne, thus time doth turne the wheele.
Yea, thoughe some Monarche greate some worke should take in hand,
Of marble, or of Adamant, that manie worldes shoulde stande,
Yet, should one only man, with labour of the braine,
Bequeathe the world a monument, that longer shoulde remaine.
And when that marble waules, with force of time should waste;
It should indure from age, to age, and yet no age should taste.
Oh happie you therfore, who spend your blessed daies
In serving GOD, your Prince, your lande, unto your endlesse praise.
And daily doe proceede, with travaile of the minde,
To make you famous heere, and eeke, to leave a fame behinde.
Which is the cheefest thinge, the greatest Prince can have,
For, fame doth triumphe over deathe, when corpes are clos'd in grave.
Even so, your worthie workes, when you in peace shall sleepe,
Shall make reporte of your desertes, and DIERS name shall keepe.
Whome, I doe reverence still, as one of PALLAS peares:
And praye the Lorde, with joyfull dayes for to prolonge your yeares.