In laudem operis ~ Authoris
Is death of late growne feeble, and her Dart
So blunt, that shee must learne to kill by Art?
Or are her Ministers, Chance, Sicknesse, Age,
Too few in number to fulfill her rage?
That man and man in mortall feu'd combine
To date her Trophies in a rubrick line
Drawn with a Penne of Steele, by which device
Their slaughter'd bodies fall her sacrifice?
Tis so, such is their madnesse that for lone
Of peoples breath they'le prostitute their owne;
Vertue unarm'd suffers by such, whilst might
Incroacheth on the priviledge of right.
But Sonne of Mars to rescue innocence
From injuries, hast publisht this defence
And teachest how with skill to countermaund
The deadly outrage of a stronger hand.
Thy Booke, although the volume be but small
Is great enough t'undoe Chirurgions Hall;
Charon may yawne and stretch, expecting fares
(As watermen doe at the Temple staires
Ith' long vacation ere they earne a groate)
Yet want a naulum to repaire his boate.
Sam. Brigges.
Master of Arts and Fellow of King's Col. in Cambridge.
To the deserving Author.
The joyntlesse Fencers glory who rehearse,
Must let his fancy blood and bleed a verse;
In sheetes of Steele must entertaine the Nine,
And write with Quills shot from th'brisl'd Porcupine.
Spirit of Arts! Lovely! Misterious strife!
Deaths true Commedie acted to the life.
Motinos pleasing-horrid! here the same sight
Daunts the valiant which makes the coward fight.
You that let fall your Babell thoughts at least
When tumults omen what your feares suggest,
Your valour hence unsheath againe, draw breath
By Art, and live in th'very act of death.
The left hand man that falsefies his Play,
Ne're yet oppugned, now makes himselfe away:
Thy Art exact thus kills without offence,
And murther qualifiesto innocence.
When judgement umpires 'twixt the hands and eye,
The first stroake types a perfect victory,
(Grand Master of the great Art Masculine)
Lawrell thine owne Temples, for th'Field is thine;
Triumph in th'Booke of Fate, this wounding Balme
Whilst thee in th'Cirque we Coronet with Palme.
Jo. Godolphin.
Bach. of the Civill Law, of Glouc. Hall Oxford.
Thou who as yet thy Steele dost feare
Which at thy back doth hang, and ne're
Did'st draw thy blade but for to show't,
Or tell the price for which 'twas bought;
See here the Art to use it, such,
That Naples scarce can teach so much:
Behold thy foe in paper bleede,
And cut, that pittie 'tis to reade,
(Here thou mayst learn to laugh at those,
At Callis, who to blinde their foes,
The Sand into their faces throw,
And then attempt a desperate blow)
Her's nobler shifts to foyle his hand;
To drink his blood let lie the sand:
Now thou art taught by finer art
To cut life's Gordian thread apart.
Pallas invites thee here to looke,
Read, and thy life's sav'd by the booke.
Anthony Askham,
Fellow of Kings Colledge in Cambridge
To his worthy, valourous, and ingenious friend the Author.
Not for thy love, or kindnesse showne to me
Doe I commend this Booke, or yet praise thee;
For though I know thou art a friend of mine,
I praise this for its own sake, not for thine,
Thou herein to the Reader dost impart
In a plaine way that famous Martiall art
Of fencing, which by charge and toylesome paine
Thou hast attain'd, and striv'st to make us gaine
By thy great labour, and hereby dost prove
That th'art not onely full of skill but love
Of th'common good, for which thy name shall be
Both lov'd of us and our posteritie.
Jo. Sotheby
Of Greyes-Inne.
To his Friend.
Long peace (some say) breeds Warre, a Fate
Contemptible in it selfe, for us to hate,
Yet when necessity to the Sword gives Law
Twere more then dastardly not to draw:
With braver spirits that them attempt to doe,
Her's honored skill and skill for honour too:
Loe her's a Mr. not for Boyes but Men,
Who terminates all weapons with his Pen;
His postures such that addes to our life Fame,
(Life overpast) a Trophee to our Name.
For if we honour give to Law, alone
That keepes us in our owne possession
What dignities sufficient, or what degree
Can recompence that Art which keepes us free
From forreine and demestique foes, from wrongs,
In duels, combats, multitudes and throngs,
And in the Amphitheater to strive
With savage Lions who shall survive?
Hadst thou beene there thy nimble skill and Art
Would soone have wonne dire Neroes heart
Who would have thought Romes treasure to be
A small reward and recompence for thee.
Besids 'twill adde unto thy worth: by Sword
Caesar himselfe through Flintie mountaines bord
Much more our stony hearts thy Art and skill,
Pierces and workes in us both power and will
Yet men will carpe, envie at vertue aimes,
The fairest face may be Sunburnt with staines
And know, Mechanicks that doe not understand
Some Pety-Marchants growne behind hand
Will secretly contemne, abroad their feare
Will reconcile them lest thou shouldst heare
And question words with blowes, Heroick blood
Termes this the sinewes of the publicke good,
But I doe wrong thee much in this low praise.
Nay I should wrong thee if I gave thee Bayes
Alone; since thy victorious hand and tongue
Deserves the noble Palme, the Muses song.
Tamberlayne Bowdler,
Nuper ex AEd. Christ. Oxon. nunc de Gray Hospitis.
To his Friend the Author.
Mars and Minerva in a Nuptiall band.
By a sacred Flamen here conjoyned stand,
At this great marriage after the English rite
I offer here mine English worthlesse mite.
A. Smallwood,
Master of Arts, sometimes of S. Peters Colledge in Cambridge.
Great Master of the Sword and Pen! poore we
Hang onely Trophies t'your humilitie;
We but increase your traine, not gild your Bayes,
Nor adde to th'shout of victory, your praise
Would weare a Caesers stile out; one that writes
With the same Art and Courage, that he fights
Mankind's your debtor, Sir: and should each one
Y'have fav'd a Garland bring, our Okes were gone;
Duells may now be lawfull: for to fight
Will be but Exercise, or Play in spight.
Each man's impassable, more safe from harme
Than if he wore a Lapland Witches charme.
And thou our Lawes forbid it, yet y'have tooke
A course to save the Dueller by's booke:
Pallas now scornes her Gorgon in ith' Field
Sheele make your Booke her Study and her Shield.
William Creed,
Oxon.
To the Reader.
Harke Reader, would'st be learn'd ith'Warres,
A Captaine in a Gowne?
Strike a league with Bookes and Scarres?
And weare of both the Crowns?
Wouldst be a Wonder? such a one
As could winne with a Looke?
A Schollar in a Garrison?
And conquer by the Booke?
Take then this Mathematick Shield
And henceforth by its Rules,
Be able to disput ith Field,
And combate in the Schooles.
Whil'st peacefull Learning once agen,
And th' Souldier do concorde,
As that he fights now with her Penne
And shee writes with his Sword.
Rich. Lovelace.
A. Glouces: Oxon.
Here troopes of Figures muster, here along
March long-shank'd lines, & angles in a throng
The Sword's the Leader, and a sharpe one too,
That never brookes to word it, if he doe
But turne, they turne streight with him; Figures then
Disfigure, Angles vary, Lines begin
To cringe and crooke themselves and trembling flye
To corners: so they'r Angl'd instantly.
Tis well the Sword's the Leader, 'twould molest
To ranke him rightly more then all the rest.
The Lines claime him for theirs, and thus conclude
That needs must be a Line that's Longitude.
Should I so count Him? th' Angles would confute
My forwardnesse; cry out, are lines acute?
Ranke him with us; the body Sphericall.
Would next step in, thus argue, d'ont swords all
Touch plaxum still in puncto? So doe wee;
Tis plaine, this touchstone proves him kin to me.
Thus would they wrangle for him, though tis known
The Sword for equalls will admit of none.
Hee'd make them soone confesse their properties,
By cutting them into infinities.
Mysterious Artist! whose profounder skill
Has made the Sword a Scholler g'ainst its will,
Has made it learn'd, and, though it selfe not knowes
To make a Geometrick figure in its blowes.
Will. Bevve,
New Coll. Ox. Fell.
Thankes Mathematick Fencer, that dost tye
The Sword to th'booke and fight in Geometry.
That hast given eares to weapons and dost cause
Armes to be subject to the voice of lawes.
Proceed thus in thy Miracles; be read
And wonderd at, the same path few can tread.
D. Vivian.
Fell. new Coll. in Oxon.
Sir,
The praises which to Xenophon were due,
May now deservedly be fixt on you:
By this we doe you right, not wrong him, when
You weild as well as he the Sword, and Penne.
But this is not enough: thou dost out-doe
Not Xenophon alone, but nature too:
That each manshould defend himselfe, we be
By nature taught, but how we should, by thee.
W.W.
Oxoniensis