Ortho-epia Gallica Eliots fruits for the French: enterlaced vvith a double nevv inuention, vvhich teacheth to speake truely, speedily and volubly the French-tongue. Pend for the practise, pleasure, and profit of all English gentlemen, who will endeuour by their owne paine, studie, and dilligence, to attaine the naturall accent, the true pronounciation, the swift and glib grace of this noble, famous, and courtly language.

The praise of France, translated out of the workes of William Salustius, Lord of Bartas.

O Fruitfull France! Most happie Land, happie and happie thrice! O pearle of rich European bounds! O earthly Paradice! All haile sweet soile! O France the mother of many conquering knights, Who planted once their glorious standards like triumphing vvights, Vpon the banckes of Euphrates vvhere Titan Day-torch bright Riseth, and bloodie swords vnsheathd where Phoebus drounds his light. The mother of many Artist-hands whose workemanship most rare Dimmes Natures workes, and with her fairest flowers doth compare. The Nurse of many learned wits who fetch their skill diuine From Rome, from Greece, from Aegypt farre, and ore the learnedst shine, As doth the glymmering-Crimsin-dye ouer the darkest gray: Titan ore starres, or Phoebus flowers ore marigolds in May. Thy flouds are Ocean Seas, thy Townes to Prouinces arise, Whose ciuill gouernment their vvalles hath raisd to loftie skies. Thy soile is fertill-temperate-sweete, no plague thine aire doth trouble, Bastillyons fower borne in thy bounds: two Seas and mountaines double, The Crocodile fierce-weeping-teares annoyeth not thy maine, The speckled-race of crawling Serpents hant not thy domaine, Not in one Acre of thy land that cursed seed is seene, Backs-venimous-twinding to and fro t'infect thy medowes greene. The Tigre-swift of-foote prayes not within thy mountains hollow, Nor hungry-foming ore thy Plaines inrag'd his chace doth follow. No Lions in thy desarts lurke: no Sea-horse monster-rumbling, Swimmes to thy maine, and steales thy infants vnder vvaues them tumbling. If in thy streaming-riuers-rich-swift-gliding be not rold The golden sands mong Pibble-stones, nor ore of massiue gold: If siluer pure dropping from downe thy mountaines be not found, And euerie step Pearle, Ruby, Diamond, Grenate in thy ground, In countre-change thou art as rich in Wadde, in Wooll, in Wines, In Salt-pits, Sindon fine, good Graine: which are sufficient mines To make thee farre and neere renound of earthly Kingdomes Queenes. Tis onely Peace, thou lackst, Alas! O God vvhose Eyes haue seene Our blessings and our miseries, thine Eyes of mercy glance Vpon our present State and quench the flames consuming France: Sweete father turne our stormes to calmes: Thy heauy hand retire, Hide quickly in the Quiuer all the Arrowes of thine Ire.

FINIS.