Text.Anthony.1616-01.!4v/Translation
A Sea Sponge Containing Defensive Epigrams Against the Accusations in Matthew Gwinne's Book, and the Poems Prefixed to It, by Hermes Malavici.
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.
Though I am Anthony, I cannot become Postpony: just remove the first letter, and you'll be Nonius.
