To my very much Honoured Friend Mr. Robert Loveday, upon his matchless Version, Entitu∣led Loves Master-piece.
SIR, there is nothing that offends me so (Next to my sins) as these Your Lines must go For a Translation; which no less exceed The French, than Fertile-Nile, the Barren Tweed: Which (when the Delphick Sword of Him that Reigns Hath Conquer'd France, made the steep Mountains, Plains, And laid both Dialects in common,) shall Be thought no Copy, but th' Original. For where the Author onlie doth abound With Graceful words, here th' are with Fancy Crown'd: What he wrapt up in Clouds of grosser Air, Your LOVE distills in Phrase polite and fair. Where he Confounds us with an irksom Night, Your DAY Reviveth by his Gladsom Light: Chawcer and Gowr our Language but refin'd, You (SIR) true Chymist like, have it calcin'd: Hew'd out the Barbarous knots, and made it run As smooth as doth the Chariot of the Sun; Whilst French is but the Foil, to let us see The Lustre of our Tongues Prosperity. And this choice Work more fitly stiled is, (Not onlie LOVE'S, but) LOVED AYES Master-piece.G. Wharton.