PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION.

TO HIS KIND AND TRUE FRIEND,

EDWARD BLOUNT.

BLOUNT: I purpose to be blunt with you, and out of my dulness to encounter you with a dedication in memory of that pure elemental wit Chr. Marlowe, whose ghost or genius is to be seen walk the churchyard in, at the least, three or four sheets. Methinks

you should presently look wild now, and grow humorously frantic upon the taste of it. Well, lest you should, let me tell you: this spirit was sometime a familiar of your own, Lucan's first book translated; which, in regard of your old right in it, I have raised in the circle of your patronage. But stay now, Edward, if I mistake not, you are to accommodate yourself with some few instructions, touching the property of a patron, that you are not yet possessed of; and to study them for your better grace as our gallants do fashions. First, you must be proud and think you have merit enough in you, though you are never so empty; then when I bring you the book take physic, and keep state, assign me a time by your man to come again, and afore the day be sure to have changed your lodging; in the mean time sleep little, and sweat with the invention of some pitiful dry jest or two which you may happen to utter, with some little, or not at all, marking of your friends when you

have found a place for them to come in at: or if by chance something has dropped from you worth the taking up, weary all that come to you with the often repetition of it; censure scornfully enough, and somewhat like a traveller; commend nothing, lest you discredit your (that which you would seem to have) judgment. These things, if you can mould yourself to them, Ned, I make no question but they will not become you. One special virtue in our patrons of these days I have promised myself you shall fit excellently, which is to give nothing; yes, thy love I will challenge as my peculiar object both in this, and, I hope, many more succeeding offices: Farewell, Í affect not the world should measure my thoughts to thee by a scale of this nature; leave to think good of me when I fall from thee.

Thine in all rights of perfect friendship,.

THOM. THORPE.

Lucan's first Booke, translated line for line by Chr. Marlow. At London, Printed by P. Short, and are to be sold by Walter Burre, at the signe of the Flower de Luce in Paules Churchyard, 1600.

The present edition is reprinted from a copy in the Bodleian Library, (the only one we believe known to be extant) formerly belonging to Mr. Malone, who has made the following note on the fly leaf. "This is, I believe, the third specimen of blank verse in the English language. Lord Surrey's translation of the fourth Eneid of Virgil was the first. Turverville's translations from Ovid, I believe, the second."

THE

FIRST BOOK OF LUCAN,

TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH.

WARS worse then civil on Thessalian plains,
And outrage-strangling law and people strong,
We sing, whose conquering swords their own breasts
launch'd,

Armies allied, the kingdom's league uprooted,
Th' affrighted world's force bent on public spoil,
Trumpets and drums, like deadly, threat'ning other,
Eagles alike display'd, darts answering darts.
Romans, what madness, what huge lust of war
Hath made barbarians drunk with Latin blood?
Now Babylon, (proud through our spoil) should stoop,
While slaughter'd Crassus' ghost walks unreveng'd.
Will ye wage war, for which you shall not triumph?
Aye me! O what a world of land and sea,

Might they have won whom civil broils have slain,
As far as Titan springs, where night dims heaven,-
Aye to the torrid zone where mid-day burns,
And where stiff winter, whom no spring resolves,
Fetters the Euxine sea with chains of ice!

Scythia and wild Armenia had been yok'd,

And they of Nilus' mouth (if there live any).
Rome, if thou take delight in impious war,
First conquer all the earth, then turn thy force
Against thyself: as yet thou want'st not foes,
That now the walls of houses half reafer'd (?) totter,
That rampiers fallen down, huge heaps of stone
Lye in our towns, that houses are abandon'd,
And few live that behold their ancient seats;
Italy many years hath lain untill'd

And choak'd with thorns; that greedy earth wants

hinds.

Fierce Pyrrhus! neither thou nor Hannibal

Art cause; no foreign foe could so afflict us ;
These plagues arise from wreck of civil power.
But if for Nero (then unborn) the fates

Would find no other means, (and gods not slightly
Purchase immortal thrones; nor Jove joy'd heaven,
Until the cruel giants war was done.)

We 'plain not heavens, but gladly bear these evils
For Nero's sake: Pharsalia groan with slaughter;
And Carthage souls be glutted with our blood!
At Munda let the dreadful battles join;
Add Cæsar, to these ills, Perusian famine;
The Mutin toils; the fleet at Leuca sunk;
And cruel field, near burning Ætna fought:
Yet Rome is much bound to these civil arms,
Which made thee emperor, thee (seeing thou being old
Must shine a star) shall heaven (whom thou lovest,)
Receive with shouts; where thou wilt reign as king,
Or mount the sun's plume-bearing chariot,

And with bright restless fire compass the earth,
Undaunted though her former guide be chang'd.
Nature, and every power shall give thee place,
What God it please thee be, or where to sway:
But neither chuse the north t'erect thy seat;
Nor yet the adverse reaking southern pole,
Whence thou should'st view thy Rome with squint-
ing beams.

If any one part of vast heaven thou swayest,
The burden'd axles with force will bend;

The mid'st is best; that place is pure, and bright,
There Cæsar may'st thou shine and no cloud dim thee;
Then men from war shall bide in league and ease,
Peace through the world from Janus' fane shall fly,
And bolt the brazen gates with bars of iron.
Thou, Cæsar, at this instant art my god;
Thee if I invocate, I shall not need

To crave Apollo's aid, or Bacchus' help;

Thy power inspires the muse that sings this war.
The causes first I purpose to unfold,

Of these garboils, whence springs a long discourse,
And what made madding people shake off peace.
The fates are envious, high seats quickly perish,
Under great burdens falls are ever grievous;
Rome was so great it could not bear itself:
So when this world's compounded union breaks,
Time ends, and to old Chaos all things turn;
Confused stars shall meet, celestial fire
Fleet on the floods, the earth shoulder the sea,
Affording it no shore, and Phoebe's wain,