Text.Anthony.1616-01.!4v
Back to Authors | Back to Texts by Michael Maier
Source: Francis Anthony, Apologia veritatis illucescentis, pro auro potabili, London: John Legate, 1616, sig. ¶4v–¶¶3v [BP.Anthony.1616-01]
Text
Ad Antonio-Mastigas Primum Epigramma.
Hortus in Hesperijs Anglorum consitus oris,
Floribus omnigenis Palladis vber erat:
Qui medicata ferens diues Potabili Auri
Pôcla, Machaonias suppeditabat opes.
Hîc Hygieia suam transmouerat aurea sedem,
Humanisque libens est medicata malis.
Hîc, et Diua Salus habitat, Parcæque sorores
Vitæ continuo stamine fila trahunt.
Liuor vt adspexit flores tam diuitis horti,
Faxo, refert, ne sit luxuriosa seges.
Dixit: araneolos et binos misit in illos,
Hesperidumque iubet spargere virus agros.
Illi dant monitis aures et dicta capessunt,
Incipiuntque atro ducere fila pede.
[sig. ¶¶1r] Queîs ita Pæonium irretire reflexibus hortum
Tentârunt, herbis et spoliare suis.
Verùm non tulit impatiens Malauicius Hermes,
Spongiolam salibusque imbuit ipse suis:
Inq́ue manus mittit Francisco Teutonis orâ,
Bestiolas acri quâ lauet ille sale.
Nec mora, dum lotio bipedes aspergit Arachnos,
Ecce redit flori vis medicata nouo:
Omnéque virus abit plantis tam nobilis horti
Hesperidum; virtus in sale tanta latet.
Ite per vmbrosas ô vos animalcula syluas,
In folijs telas et malè nete rudes:
Hîc ubi Strymoniæ Pygmæi bella volûcri
Miscent, non tricis hic locus aptus erit.
Eiusdem ad Eosdem secundum.
Svtores duo Centonem geminum artesuentes
Nobile iactabant Palladis illud opus:
Visum est hoc nitidum pulchróque colore politum
Pandoram varijs exuperare bonis:
Vtile sed nullis dabat experientia rebus,
Nec quis ea[c1] poterat commoditate frui:
Centonem pueri geminum dum fortè capessunt,
Hoc vsu et lusu gratius esse vident.
Inde fit vt tractent pueri versatile Gwinni,
Et Rawline, tuæ quod fuit artis opus.
Ignari gaudent rerum nouitate, quid obstat
Cum magnis pueros ludere sæpe viris?
Namque viri ex pueris fiunt crescentibus annis,
Menteque sunt visi reppuerâsse viri.
[sig. ¶¶1v] Ad primvm carmen Gwinnii libro præfixvm.
Martis auis ternos ter vbi transegerit annos,
Dira venenosi seminis oua parit:
Quæ si tardigradus lethali viscere bufo.
Fouerit, horrificam suscitat inde luem:
Quam referunt noto Basiliscum nomine dici,
Omniaq́ue intuitu viua necare suo.
Tale cerebroso de viscere Guinnius ouum
Edidit (heu quantum criminis illud habet!)
Insidet huic bufo, versisque tepentibus alis
Adiuuat vt lucem fætus inire queat.
Prodijt hinc illo basiliscus lêtifer omni
Artifici, Chymicæ qui probat artis opus.
Infælix nimiùm fædo Bufonius ortu
Cernitur, et curis nil sapuisse suis.
Non fuerat natus gallinæ Candidus albæ,
Qui dedit, at Coruo nigrior ille nigro.
Authores proprios ouum exitiabile perdat,
Virtutis referens experimenta suæ.
Niteris in vanum Basilisci infausta propago
Virus in humanum continuare genus.
En noua vis medici fulget Potabilis Auri
Quæ valeat tantam supprimere arte luem.
Macte tua virtute; malum, Francisce, venenum
Tolle lubens terris quod Basiliscus agit.
[sig. ¶¶2r] Aliud Eiusdem ad secundum.
Vt bellum bellum, sic est mihi Candidus ille
Candidus, atratæ qui dedit artis opus.
Sane insaniuit, qui tot spurco ore cacuit
Stercora, quæ centum vix benè plaustra vehant.
An non hoc misero cerebrum dementia morbo
Exagitat, postquam lingua ita vana crepet?
Nullus in infaustis magis his incondita claustris
Effutit, aut si quem febris acuta premit.
Thersiten longè superat conuitia iactans
Gwinnius, huic cedit dente minace Theon.
Victor erit, fatuis si cui victoria verbis
Obtigit, aut vincat plumbeus Aureolum.
Plurima qui sine mente dedit dicteria, si sit
Veriloquus, palmam Gwinnius vnus habet.
At si simplicitas veri ratione vel vsu
Spectetur, Gwinnus nil nisi verba dedit.
Verba dedit, libro dum grammaticaster in vno
Quæve Calepinus, quæve Perottus, habet.
Dictorum cumulos congessit Gwinnus acerbos,
Vaniloquâ precium dignus ab arte ferat.
Dira gonorrhææ contagia sparsit et imbres
Verborum similes dum probat aure sonos.
Si lubeat resonas audire et reddere voces,
Gwinnius vmbrosum pergat adire nemus.
Hîc repetat proprium mittens ad sydera nomen,
Mirificum Gwinnus nominis omen habet.
Aliud Eiusdem ad tertium.
Filia Solis erat, socios quæ vertit Vlyssis
In pecudes, formis restituitq́ue suis.
Vnus erat turbâ, cognomine Grillus, in illâ,
Noluit humanos qui reparare sonos.
[sig. ¶¶2v] Dulce etenim fuerat cœno immersisse lutoso
Rostra, volutabris et remanere suis.
Pocula sed Circe non præbuit aurea Græcis,
Crede mihi, ex herbis illa venena dedit.
Illecebris vexat similis dementia multos,
Vt renuant veri cognitione frui.
Queîs malè mentiri volupe est, et scommata falsis
Edere, seu linguæ bella mouere, dolis.
Grunnitus tantos, latrusque inter, en vnus
Emicat, hinc Grilli qui malus omen habet?
Candidus, an niger est, Grillus, qui proluit[c2] ora
Fœcibus immundis, Candidus an niger est?
Hoc scio, quòd falso dicatur candidus, ergo
Sit niger, et cœno gaudeat ille suo.
Ipse bouis Cyprij meritus fuit esse merendam,
Omniuoro tantos qui capit ore cibos.
Turbidus inuoluit cunctos aper ille peragros
Omnia, quò Chymicæ dente terantur opes.
Immotæ sed enim captis hæ mente manebunt;
Est Erymantheô claua parata Sui.
Aliud Eiusdem ad quartum.
Egregiam (quis enim neget hoc?) Collegia laudem
Hinc referunt, medicâ quotquot[c3] ab arte cluent.
Guinniacum dum fortè probant Avrvm, non Avrvm,
Candidus vt carbo, cuius bene noscitur author,
Si volucris sese vocibus ipsa probet:
Crocîtu coruus, proprijs clangoribus anser
Proditur, argutas si strepat inter aues.
Vox irata canem prodit; sua vox quoque procum,
Rumpitur immani voce solum Neadis.
Talia si fuerint illorum pectora, qualis
Hic liber, Illyricâ sunt nigriora pice.
[sig. ¶¶3r] Mille scatet vitijs, fædissima mille cloaca
Criminibus, puros queîs grauat ille viros.
Fallor? an à prisco talis fuit editus æuo,
Londinij medicus quo capit ordo probrum.
Monstrum horrendum, ingens, nisi me præsagia fallant[c4],
Protulit infælix Gwinnius author opus.
Quale fuit melius primo extinxisse sub ortu,
Ne daret exemplis plurima damna suis.
Aliud Eiusdem in Battologiam ipsius Gwinnii.
Lineolæ ex ductu, Gwinni, velut alter Apelles
Nosceris, artificem te graue iactat opus.
Ille Deam pinxit Cyprio velut æquore natam,
Nec tulit authorem parua tabella parem.
Londonij præstans tu Censor in ordine quartus,
Antonio-mastix[c5] diceris esse libro.
Illius in morem, quem nunc post terga reponis,
Iudicium vulgi certius vt videas.
Ne te posset amor recto subuertere fætus,
Omnis enim est oculis mentéque captus amnas.
Primus en ex vulgo occurro tibi, libera lingua,
Post carecta modò tu lateas, mihi sit.
Sunt tria, quæ miror, Gwinni inquisita libelli,
In quibus haud quisquam par queat esse tui.
Vin’ vt id ingenuè sine fuco pectoris addam,
Quo velut in speculo tu videâre tibi?
Copia verborum, quæ reddant grata sonorem
Syllabicum, est dictis gratia magna tuis.
Cum loqueris, putidum, putridum, putret atque putrescit
Putrefacit purum (sunt tua verba) putum.
Millia vis exempla, darem; sed parco papyro,
Larua hominis, nullâ mente vidêris homo.
Deinde tuis nulla est connexio rebus, ab vno
Pergis ad oppositum, dans sine aquâ sabulum,
[sig. ¶¶3v] Nullus inest toto versus vel codice, qui non
Testetur muscæ te similem ingenio.
Illa quidem gyros æstiuo ducit inanes
Aere, nec causa est, cur eat et redeat.
Denique iudicium fallax te deserit, omni
Re vacuum, nec quid dixeris, ipse vides.
Non multum retulisse iuuat, sed qualia vera,
Multiloquus multum sermo tenet vitij.
Hæc tria si studeas proprio delere libello,
Vda tuum, quantum est, spongia tollet opus.
Lychnobium scio te pingui studuisse Mineruæ,
Cui Liber dictet libera dicta libro.
Hunc modò si lymphis tractes nutricibus, acris,
Quem Liber libro dat, sapor arte perit.
Ad Epigrammatistam calumniantem in fine libri.
Antonius cum sim, nequeo Postponius esse:
Prima modò dempta est littera, sis Nonius.
Apparatus
Corrections
Modern English Raw Translation
To Francis Anthony, The First Epigram.
In the western lands of England, a garden was planted, rich with all kinds of flowers from Athena's bounty. It offered healing drinks made from the wealthy Elixir of Gold, providing the wealth of Machaon. Here, Hygieia moved her golden seat and willingly treated human ailments. Here, too, dwells the goddess of health, and the Fates sisters draw the threads of life continuously. When Envy saw the garden's rich flowers, it said, "Let's ensure the crop isn't too luxurious." It sent spiders and commanded them to spread the venom across the Hesperides' fields. They listened to the advice, took action, and began to weave their dark threads. They tried to ensnare the Paean garden with their coils, aiming to strip it of its herbs. But Hermes Malavici couldn't bear it; he soaked a small sponge in his own salts and handed it to Francis Anthony from the German lands, to wash away the pests with his sharp salt. Without delay, as the wash sprinkled on the two-legged spiders, behold, the healing power returned to the flower anew: all the venom left the noble plants of the Hesperides' garden; such great power lies in the salt. Go, little creatures, weave your crude webs among the shady forests' leaves: here, where the Strymonian Pygmies mix in aerial battles, this place won't be suitable for trifles.
The Same to the Same, the Second.
Two tailors boasted of their noble work, stitching together a double patchwork, claiming it surpassed Pandora with its bright color and various virtues. Yet, it offered no practical experience or benefit to anyone; no one could enjoy its convenience. When boys happened to take up this double patchwork, they found it more pleasing in use and play. Thus, the boys handle Matthew Gwinne's versatile work, and Thomas Rawlin, what was once your craft's masterpiece. Unaware, they delight in the novelty; what's to stop boys from playing with great men's works? For men are made from boys with growing years, and in their minds, they seem to have rejuvenated.
To the First Poem Prefixed to Gwinne's Book.
Every three years, the bird of Mars lays the dreadful eggs of venomous seed. If a slow-moving toad nurtures them with its deadly flesh, it awakens a horrific plague, known to many as the Basilisk, killing all living things with its gaze. Such an egg, full of crime, was laid by Gwinne from his brainy insides. A toad sits on it, warming it with turned tepid wings, helping the offspring to see the light. From this, a deadly basilisk emerged, challenging every craftsman who approves the work of alchemy. Unlucky indeed, seen to have been born from a vile toad, and showing no wisdom in his endeavors. He wasn't born from a white hen but is blacker than a raven. May the deadly egg destroy its own creators, proving their virtue's experiments. You strive in vain, unfortunate offspring of the Basilisk, to continue your venom among humans. Behold, the new power of the Drinkable Gold shines, capable of suppressing such a great plague with art. Celebrate your virtue; Francis, willingly remove the evil poison that the Basilisk spreads across the lands.
Another by the Same to the Second.
As war is to war, so is that bright one to me, who gave the work of his dark art. He truly went mad, spewing out filth from his filthy mouth, which a hundred well-loaded carts could scarcely carry. Is not his brain tormented by madness after his tongue spouts such emptiness? No one in these unlucky confines has spouted more incoherence, except perhaps someone gripped by a fever. Gwinne surpasses Thersites in hurling insults, to him Theon yields with a menacing tooth. He will be the victor if victory in foolish words is achieved, or if he surpasses the leaden Aureolus. Gwinne alone holds the palm for spewing numerous senseless insults; if truth and simplicity are considered by reason or use, Gwinne has given nothing but words. He has filled his book with words, the same found in Ambrogio Calepino or Niccolò Perotti. Gwinne has piled up bitter sayings, worthy of a prize from the art of empty talk. He has spread the dire contagions of gonorrhea and showers of words, proving their sound to the ear. If you wish to hear and echo sounds, Gwinne, proceed to the shadowy forest. There, repeat your name to the stars; Gwinne has a wondrous omen in his name.
Another by the Same to the Third.
The daughter of the Sun, who turned Ulysses' companions into beasts and then restored their forms. Among them was one named Grillus, who refused to regain human speech. For him, it was sweet to immerse his snout in muddy mire and remain among his wallowings. But Circe did not offer the Greeks golden cups; believe me, she gave them poisons from herbs. A similar madness vexes many, making them refuse the knowledge of truth. They find pleasure in lying badly and issuing mockeries with falsehoods, or engaging in verbal battles with tricks. Among so many grunts and barks, who stands out as having the bad omen of Grillus? Is he bright or dark, this Grillus who washes his face with filthy muck, bright or dark? I know this much: he is falsely called bright, so let him be dark and rejoice in his mire. He deserved to be a meal for a Cyprian ox, consuming such vast amounts with his all-devouring mouth. That wild boar envelops all in confusion, grinding everything with his teeth against the wealth of alchemy. But those captured by this mindset will remain unmoved; the club for the Erymanthian Boar is ready.
Another by the Same to the Fourth.
Colleges, indeed, deserve praise for their contributions to the medical arts. While testing Gwinne's Gold, not gold but as black as coal, whose author is well known, if a bird proves itself by its calls: the crow by its croak, the goose by its honks if it squawks among the tuneful birds. An angry voice betrays a dog; its own voice also exposes a suitor, the ground breaks under the mighty voice of a Naiad. If their hearts are like this book, they are blacker than Illyrian pitch. It teems with a thousand faults, a most foul sewer of crimes, burdening pure men. Am I mistaken, or was such a work published in ancient times, bringing shame to the medical order of London? A monstrous, immense work, unless my predictions deceive me, was unfortunately produced by the author Gwinne. It would have been better to extinguish it at its first appearance, lest it cause much harm with its examples.
Another by the Same on Gwinne's Tautology.
Gwinne, in your lines, you're recognized as another Apelles, your heavy work boasts of the artist. He painted the goddess born from the Cyprian sea, and the small panel could not match its creator. You, standing out as the fourth censor in London, are called the scourge of Anthony in the book. Like him, whom you now leave behind, to see the judgment of the crowd more clearly. Lest love for the right offspring turn you aside, for everyone is caught by eyes and mind. I, first from the crowd, confront you with a free tongue, now you may hide behind reeds, it's my turn. There are three things I wonder at in Gwinne's book, in which no one can match you. Would you like me to add frankly, without deceit, so you can see yourself as in a mirror? The abundance of words, which make a pleasant syllabic sound, is a great grace to your sayings. When you speak, it stinks, rots, and putrefies; it corrupts the pure well (these are your words). Do you want thousands of examples? I'd give them, but I spare the paper, you seem a man in mask, without a mind. Then, there's no connection in your matters, you go from one to the opposite, giving sand without water, not a single verse or code in the entire book that doesn't show you're like a fly in wit. Indeed, it makes pointless circles in the summer air, without reason for its coming and going. Finally, your deceptive judgment leaves you, empty of everything, not even seeing what you've said. It doesn't matter much to have said a lot, but what's true, a talkative speech holds much fault. If you strive to erase these three from your own book, a wet sponge, as big as it is, will remove your work. I know you've devoted yourself to the fat Minerva of the Lamp, to whom the Book dictates free speech. If now you treat it with nurturing, sharp waters, the taste that the Book gives to the book through art disappears.
To the Slanderous Epigrammatist at the End of the Book.
