A PROSPECTIVE Of the Naval Triumph Of the VENETIANS over the TURK.  
To signior PIETRO LIBERI That Renowned, and famous Painter.  
By GIO: Francisco Busenello.  
LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman, and are to be sold at his shop at the sign of the Anchor, in the lower walk in the New-Exchange. 1658.   

To my Lord HENRY Earl of PETERBOURGH Lord Mordant of Turvey.  
My Lord,  
THAT virtuous Cavalier signior Sagredo, when he left England, presented me with this Triumph of his Country, which I here send your Lordship, but in another Tongue. With what success I have made it English, it is not for me to judge, since it is a vanity given to all men, who make verses, to think them good. What the worth of these is, you, my Lord, who have so refined a taste, who know the nature and propriety of every thing, and understand Italian, as if you were born at Florence, will be best able to determine.  
I need not tell your Lordship, who are ignorant of nothing, what a great difference there is in Translating; that nothing is more easy, and nothing more difficult. To translate an Argument or Discourse, which consists of matter, requires no more, than a command of the Tongue, into which one translates; and a reasonable understanding of that, out of which one does it: So that any man so qualified, if he want not judgement, may translate such things successfully. But to turn a Poem, the beauty of which lies not in the matter, but in the words, in the air and dress, into another tongue, asks not judgement only, but invention too; insomuch that he shall never translate a Poem well, who cannot make one. Nor is judgement and invention all, in doing it well there is a kind of luck too, which will not fall under any rule; a certain felicity, which is given only to some particular spirits. For the thoughts and design of this piece, I am not to answer, since they are none of mine: If I have given it an English Genius, defaced as little as may be the Original, and native beauty of it, and put it into such words, as Busenello would have done, if he had been an Englishman, it is all that can be expected from me.  
With the English, I have sent your Lordship the original, that you may not only judge, whether it be well painted, but whether it be a faithful Copy, and imitate the Italian life. You will easily discern, my Lord, where I have wronged Busenello, and where, if I have not wronged him everywhere, I have done him right.  
I could have wished, my Lord, that instead of sending you the actions of other men to read, I might have read your own; I mean, those great actions, of which you have all the seeds in your mind, and want nothing but a field to sow them in, some noble occasion to put them forth. That Courage, judgement, Eloquence, Knowledge of things past, Intelligence of the present, Foresight of the future, acquaintance with Books, understanding of Men, and a Genius made for business: To this, sweetness of Manners, a generous and obliging Nature, a taking mien, that grace which distinguishes a great Person in a crowd, and makes him regarded when he is by himself, when he has none of his train and followers about him; invincible courtesy, inviolable Friendship, and perfection in that great Science, which is so little understood, of Offices and Conversation virtues, my Lord, which in Rome would have made you a Consul, and banished you, if you had been born in Athens. No tumour, no grimness, nothing directed to ostentation, but all natural, and uncounterfeited virtue. But amongst so many great qualities, it is not fit I should forget that, which is an ornament to all the rest, your Lordship's Modesty, which it may be will be offended at this licence which I have taken to commend you, though I have said nothing, but what you, my Lord, must needs be conscious of: For though they, who have the most merit, have always the least arrogance, they cannot want an inward assurance of their own worth, and satisfaction in it, which is the great reward wherewith virtue pays her followers, and sustains the mind, when the applause of men, the favours of fortune, and all things without us, fail us.  
What ever opinion your Lordship has of this Translation, I am confident you will take delight in the subject of it. For how can you, who have such mighty inclinations to do great things, but be pleased to hear of them? How can a soul, so inflamed with the love of virtue, but rejoice to see virtue prosperous? to see Art subdue Power, and Conduct triumph over Advantage? In one respect, it may be, your Lordship may read this with some displeasure, such a displeasure, as would not let Themistocles sleep, when he heard of the victories of Miltiades; a displeasure arising from a generous emulation, to think, that others should have such occasions for the exercise of their virtues, when you have none for yours: to think, that others should spend their time, in procuring safety and happiness to their afflicted Country, and immortal glory to themselves, when you sit with your arms folded, in a Closet, or a Garden, and waste your Youth in the shade amongst books and trees.  
Besides the noble Persons which are here celebrated, there is something else, it may be, that will entertain your Lordship. I imagine, you will be pleased to hear Busenello discourse to Liberi, the rareness of his art, and the incredible things that are done by Painting; to see such a description of Colours, expressing Nature to the life; and then Words with as great a life, expressing those Colours. Me thinks here is no ill Idea of those two noble Sisters, Poesy and Picture, the Sciences of Words and Colours. And which of them, my Lord, in your judgement, deserves to be preferred? which of them, shall we believe, imitates Nature best? and which has the advantage of the other, silent, or talking painting? But I will leave your Lordship with Busenello, to determine that question, and beg pardon for my confidence in this address. If I have done ill to engage the name I most honour, in the protection of a Stranger, who it may be, through my misrepresenting him, will be but ill received, I know your Lordship will forgive me: My indiscretion cannot be so great, as your Generosity: You, who have a goodness to pardon injuries, will easily excuse failings, especially when they proceed from right intentions, and from a heart so full of affection to your Person, and reverence to your virtues, as that of  
My Lord Your Lord most humble & most obedient Servant THOMAS higgon's.   

Thomas Higgonus Illustrissimo Viro Ludovico Sagredo. S,  
QUantâ voluptate tuo à nobis discossu privacus sim, tu pro nostrâ consuetudine facilè existimare potes. Tardior ad scribendum sui, quod mihi incompertum sit ubi terrarum sis. Ego enim te arbitror Francofurtum comitia illa Augustissima videndi causâ profectum; nec id ipsum certum habeo, aut quid temporis in Germaniâ ponas. Rogo magnoperè, ut me doceas quid facturus sis, nè de te diutiùs ignorem. Hoc si feceris sive apud Germanos opperiaris, sive re Venetias conferas, officia mea haud unquam desideraturus es. Navalem Busenelli vestri triumphum quem mihi dono dedisti ad te mitto. Sed mutatum, conversum, alio idiomate donatum. Vísne me aper iùs loqui? studium in te meum, & in gentem vestram effecit, ut splendidum illud Busenelli carmen ex Italico in Anglicum sermonem traducere conatus fuerim. Habes mi Sagrede Triumph os vestros linguâexoticâ recitatos: habes Musas Venetas Anglicè canentes, si modò canere videor, & non strepere. Vides, ut rerum à vobis gestarum fama remotissimas regiones implet, & terrarum fines pervagatur.  
Nec solum hoc noverit ultimus Ister,  
Quique solent radios nascentis cernere Phoebi,  
Sed gelidus Boreas, & folis●egna jacentis,  
Et vestro penitùs divisa Britannia mundo.  
Vivat Serenissima Respublica, vigeat armis, floreat triumphis, & dum caeteri Christianae terrae Principes in se invicem convertunt gladios, illa pro more suo Christiani nominis vindex foedum Mahometanum repellat, debellet, atterat, laudem apud homines, mercedem apud Deum Opt, Max. sempiternam confequatur. Cura, ut valeas, & meî memor sis.  
Londini V. ID. Octob. Anno MDCLVII.   

To my worthy friend Mr. higgon's, upon his Translation of the Venetian Triumph.  
THe winged Lion's not so fierce in fight,  
As Liberi's hand presents him to our sight:  
Nor could his pencil make him half so fierce,  
Or roar so loud, as Busenello's Verse.  
But your Translation does all three excel,  
The Fight, the Piece, and lofty Busenell.  
As their small galleys may not hold compare  
With our tall ships, whose sails employ more air:  
So does th' Italian to your Genius veil,  
Moved with a fuller and a nobler gale.  
Thus while your Muse spreads the Venetian story,  
You make all Europe emulate her glory;  
You make them blush, weak Venice should defend  
The cause of Heaven, while they for words contend,  
Shed Christian blood, and populous cities raze,  
Because th' are taught to use some different phrase.  
If listening to your charms, we could our jars  
Compose, and on the Turk discharge these wars,  
Our British Arms the sacred Tomb might wrest  
From Pagan hands, and triumph o'er the East.  
And then you might our own high deeds recite,  
And with great Tasso celebrate the fight.  
EDM. WALLER.   

Illustrious Liberi.  

IF the creating pencil in thy hand  
Can even portents and prodigies command,  
If thy aspiring industry can find  
The art to colour thoughts, and paint the wind.   

If thou Apelles glory canst benight,  
And drown his fame it'h Ocean of thy light,  
If colours thou new qualities canst give,  
And go beyond all that did ever live.   

If other Artists toil, and toil in vain  
To that, which costs thee nothing, to attain;  
If thou canst draw the whispers of the air,  
And bring them to our eye, as well as ear.   

If billows feigned by thee in cloth do roar,  
And quarrel with the Rocks, and tear the shore;  
If painted tempests rage, and swell so high,  
That the true Sun therein may hidden lie.   

If thou on linen canst Ideas show,  
Which we but by Imagination know;  
If pure and sublimated Fancies be,  
Drawn to the life, and visible by thee.   

If amazed Nature challenge thee, and swear,  
These things are none of thine, but done by her:  
If she mistake thy hand for hers, and grow  
In love with thee, who hast deceived her so.   

Thy Pencil would have spoiled Deucalion's trade,  
That he with stones had never Nations made:  
Thy strokes had done that mighty business then,  
And the world peopled, when there were no Men.   

Blessed Prospective! thou dost so far excel  
All wonder, that thou hast no parallel.  
Though the drowned Universe were now to trace,  
And Painters stood in the Creator's place.   

If by thy Pencil, buried Ages may  
Be brought again to life, and see the day,  
As thou canst raise their fame, this victory  
Will give immortal fame, and life to thee.   

A victory, the like was never known,  
In Persia, nor in Rome, nor Macedon;  
Which has outdone all victories before,  
To which Pharsalia's nothing, Actium poor.   

Which th'Ottoman Moon has brought into her wane,  
And to her former, added this new stain;  
And with full sails, upon the Eastern flood,  
Has drunk revenge in unbeleever's blood.   

Which passing story, and th'exactest pen,  
Has dried up Lethe, which devowers them:  
From which the Thracian sails so proudly spread  
Beyond the mountains, and the seas are fled.   

Which in the bosom of the Turk dismayed  
With horror, such a Tragedy has played,  
As made the angry Gulf of Ella swell  
With sighs and tears, which from the conquered fell.   

In which God's words are now accomplished,  
Thou on the Asp and Basilisk shall tread.  
His children's feet no force nor art can stay,  
Who through opposition make their way.   

Do thou new breath in those dead bodies put,  
Open those eyes again, which Fate has shut:  
Cut off the wings of Time, and make him stand,  
That what is past, by thee may be at hand.   

The fabulous Jove two nights together made,  
When he unseen with mortal beauty played,  
And the true God did once prolong the day,  
For Joshua's sake, the Sun his course did stay.   

Thy hand which does distribute life, and can  
Reanimate the body of a man  
By thy designing, shall do more than they,  
And make eternal this victorious day.   

Let Art be heightened to an ecstasy,  
And when 'tis made divine, descend on thee;  
Then paint the ruin of the Turkish name,  
And their ships taken, sunk, or on a flame:   

In Balm thy azure and vermilion steep,  
And in the rays o'th' sun thy yellow dip;  
Look out for Quintessences never known,  
And fly beyond all that was ever done.   

A sea of storms and showers be thy Scene,  
As when the winds & waves at war have been.  
And near this tempest on the shore hard by,  
Thy pallet, colours, and thy pencil lie.   

'Twixt sky and water a third colour find,  
Which may amaze, and yet delight the mind:  
Let it not Azure, nor Cerulean be,  
But imitate and mock the foam o'th' sea.   

In forming waves, some crooked make, some, flow  
Some knock the stern, whilst others shake the prow;  
And raise & sink alternately the keel,  
That in dead cloth, the ship may motion feel.   

The air a mixture be of clouds and light,  
Let it successively be dark and bright:  
Now let the brightness to the darkness yield,  
Then let light chafe the dark, and win the field.   

Bring in some horror, which at first surprise  
May please us, even when it terrifies.  
Employ thy wits, show what thy art can do,  
Delight the world, and make it wonder too.   

Apply thy skill, till the beholder be  
Amazed, and doubt, whether he dream or see;  
Whether Art or Nature the advantage have,  
And swear that Truth is but Appearance slave.   

There in the Hellespont, where yet is known,  
Leander's swimming, and fair hero's moan;  
Where Xerxes brought such mighty Hosts in vain,  
Only to soil with corpse the Argive plain.   

There sits the wicked Tyrant on his Throne,  
And rules an hundred Kingdoms all alone.  
There met the Fleet, which the woods naked made  
And left the forest bare without a shade.   

Now was the Canon seen to thunder death,  
To lighten ruin, and destruction breathe;  
One shot an hundred to the grave did send,  
One moment put to many years an end.   

From cruel bows with force and malice bent,  
Slaughters, and many feathered dea●●s were sent:  
Shafts killed & spared, as they did chance to light,  
Some wounded were, and some were slain outright.   

The bluer forehead of the Sea was died  
With streaks of blood, which did her face divide:  
The Miscreants rashly did o'er bodies wade,  
Of which from ship to ship they bridges made.   

When Mars grown jealous for his native place,  
Armed all his Furies to defend his Thrace,  
And as the Trumpets sounded the alarm,  
Power and Art did strive which most should harm.   

But generous Lion, what can thee resist,  
Who conquerest all opposers as thou list?  
The Heavens and Seas for thee the Zodiaks are,  
When God incites, and rouses thee to war.   

Thy naked hand St. Mark long since did write,  
When there was need to spread the gospel's light.  
That very hand now armed takes up the rod,  
To scourge the Foes of Venice and of God.   

Thy pen did once his glorious name dilate,  
Who conquered death, and triumphed over fate:  
That pen does now the place o'th' sword supply,  
To carve us out a way to victory.   

Let this glad news o'er all the earth be brought  
Dictate to me some high immortal thought:  
Let these my lines in marble written be,  
And give this history eternity.   

The winds were mines, to whose rich treasure we  
Do owe the purchase of the Victory,  
They winged our files, and made our squadrons fly,  
With force against the barbarous Enemy.   

That Spirit, which upon the water's face,  
Before the world was made did gently pass,  
From the Egean coasts, breathed on our sails,  
And gave our vessels still successful gales.   

Of Sulphur mixed with Nitre, many a shower  
The Christians on the infidels did pour.  
And torn with shot, and storms of burning lead,  
Thousands of Macon's followers lay dead.   

The shocks, assaults, and cries so loud and shrill,  
Did Grecian woods, and Asian valleys fill,  
Which echoes from dark caves, and hollow ground  
In sad & mournful accents did resound.   

The famous Tomb of Mecca, which is yet  
So much adored, did drops of poison sweat.  
This Victory does reach the Lybian sand,  
And tempests cause in the Numidian land.   

Our galleys pointed prowess do now prevail,  
The foaming billows of the sea they scale:  
We shots and blows continually renew,  
That we those hateful monsters may subdue.   

Unconquered courages of noble hearts,  
Who did perform your own, and others parts!  
Nothing did more than your example then,  
Pointing the way to glory to your men.   

Fortune and Death were both together here,  
Where either served unpressed a Volunteer.  
And hid the Turkish Army, in despite  
Of the moon's Empire, in eternal night.   

One of our men would with a daring hand  
Have stopped the flying Fleet, and made it stand;  
Alone he durst the Turkish host defy,  
So much their courage he did vilify.   

The hand cut off, which held his threatning sword,  
Falling i'th' Sea, did a strange sight afford:  
It brandished still the sword, and grasped it fast,  
Till hand and sword together sunk at last.   

Heads severed, as they fell, were heard to cry,  
Let Venice live in long prosperity.  
They who thus fall against the Infidel,  
For Christ and for their Prince, are safe from Hell.   

When Turks despairing on the other side,  
Their foul erroneous faith blaspheming dy'd:  
And angry now that they were circumcised,  
They would too late alas! have been baptised.   

A Turk, upon whose aged chin did grow  
A beard, which thence unto his waste did flow,  
As he approached to the precinct of death  
This sad complaint was overheard to breathe.   

How oft has this been whispered in my ear,  
Fly to the streams of Jordan, wash thee there?  
Humble thyself to Jesus, in him trust,  
Who is a guard and buckler to the just.   

But as he spoke, an arrow from among  
The Christian Vessels came, which pierced his tongue,  
When almost dead, thus to himself he cries,  
He who a rebel lives, despairing dies.   

Those blessed Names my breath does but profane,  
Natures so high and infinite disdain,  
That I should take them in my mouth, who die,  
Confirmed and hardened in impiety.   

This said, a shot from a great Gun him took,  
Which all his members into pieces broke:  
'Twas hard to say, the wretch was torn so small,  
If he were dead, or ne'er had been at all.   

Saleyards in pieces, Masts by the board shot,  
Sails swimming, Rudders burning, cordage cut:  
The prows o'th' galleys battered noseless show,  
And the whole Navy pierced through & through.   

Horrors, black shades of smoke, and flakes of light  
Present a sky, that's neither day nor night.  
Stones, bullets, arrows, slaughters still increase;  
Toils, flights, cries, shocking not a moment cease.   

Vexed with a thousand wounds, a soul's in doubt,  
Which way to leave her prison, and get out.  
Water and blood both suffocate men's breaths:  
Troubles are endless, without number deaths.   

At boarding, longer weapons laid aside,  
Daggers and poniards, hands and teeth are tried.  
Death and amazement, hatred, cries, and fear,  
Together mixed make one confusion here.   

Down from men's battered breasts, and wounded sides  
A stream of blood a purple torrent glides,  
The winds and waves do all astonished grow,  
The light does languish, and the day goes low.   

Some as they stand, some going wounded be,  
No posture is exempted, no place free:  
Sun wring their hands, some stamp their feet, some tear  
Their hair, and are all pale with rage or fear.   

Planks, cables, bodies, limbs in pieces rent,  
A Chaos in the water represent:  
Whilst slaughter does on every side invade,  
And to new dangers still a way is made.   

Here scimiters, there broken arrows lie,  
Rich vests of silk, and precious pillage by.  
Such different things by fate together brought  
Show spoils and riches are with danger bought.   

One rich with spoils, is with a pike run through,  
Before the value of his prey he know:  
Then is he slain, who feizeth his estate,  
And with his wealth inheriteth his fate.   

A Renegade, who swimming, made his feet  
And hands in circles in the water meet  
A Christian caught, who as he fighting stood,  
Had newly slipped, and fallen into the flood.   

Upon this dancing and unstable Scene,  
A strange unwonted kind of fight was seen,  
When with a spear, which on the waves did float,  
The Christian cut the proud Barbarian's throat.   

Pity and wonder everywhere do reign,  
With tears and grief attending in their train.  
The Christian hands do miracles dispense,  
And carry home a glorious harvest thence.   

The sword, the sea, and the devouring flame,  
Each in the Victory a part did claim.  
And of the conquered Fleet, burnt, drowned, and slain,  
Three Theaters of horror did remain.   

Amongst a thousand rays, bright as the Morn,  
Which the Venetian Triumph did adorn,  
One was a number of afflicted Poor,  
Who chains about their necks and ankles wore.   

Distressed Believers, whom the Turks had caught,  
And various Fates into the galleys brought,  
Who deformed slavery did with patience take,  
Though used like beasts, for their redeemer's sake.   

This happy day did them new life afford,  
Restored to longed for freedom by our sword;  
Who now forgetting all their past annoy,  
Could hardly speak, they were so filled with joy.   

Of eleven hundred, one old man was found,  
Who lift his hands, but bowed his knees to th' ground,  
And pouring out his soul at his glad eyes,  
To see himself freed from such miseries;   

Said, Lord, behold these limbs of vigour reft,  
The relics servitude, and pain have left;  
Of which my flesh the cruel marks does wear,  
Freedom and chains alike to th'dying are.   

A fading monument of this day am I,  
A fruitless Trophy of thy Victory:  
Forsook by fortune, and redeemed by thee,  
That in the pangs of death I might be free.   

An age of life I do almost attain,  
But suffered have eternities of pain.  
These hours I give thee, thou art pleased to lend,  
My Tragedy has had a joyful end.   

This said, the bloody hurts he had received,  
With other weakness, him of speech bereaved:  
And th'tyrant Time, more merciless than they,  
Had sunk his jaws, and eat his teeth away.   

So that he muttered, what I cannot tell,  
But to the ground incontinently fell;  
And groaning out his spirit in a trice,  
Mounted a Martyr into Paradise.   

Redundant joys upon his heart did seize,  
Too narrow to contain such joys as these.  
His body died, the sea his wounds did lave,  
And the next sands afforded him a grave.   

Mean while the Turkish Multitude does fall,  
The Sea is covered with their funeral.  
Their fear's so great, they will not stay for graves,  
But hide themselves in the Egean waves.   

One from his ship into the water fled,  
To seek for shelter from the flames which spread.  
But senseless waves no pity understood,  
But soon enveloped him in foam and blood.   

Another hopeless caught a flaming brand,  
Which floated by him, with his wounded hand,  
And flying seas, which would devour him straight  
Committed to the wood his dying weight.   

'Twixt fire and water, Death the spoil divides,  
The one consumes that, which the other hides.  
Thus went the Turkish Nation down amain,  
The Sea was small such ruins to contain.   

A weeping mother on the shore was sat,  
With her small children, waiting upon Fate,  
To see what of their father it resolved,  
In whom their hopes and being were involved.   

But the Fleet scattered, and the father drowned,  
She dashed the children's brains against the ground,  
Lest they should fall into the Christians hands,  
And end their days in bonds in foreign lands.   

Death now was almost spent, and weary growed,  
His sith was blunted with the lives it mowed.  
Our Captain never weary, still insists,  
And kills as long as any thing resists.   

The Turkish general, he now beheld  
Packing away, and yielding him the field;  
Those broken Troops and fragments which were there,  
Having no Guide nor Leader left, but fear.   

He does command, pursue, incite, and press,  
And to the height improveth his success.  
Ah God when an unthought of bullet came,  
Which ends his life, and elevates his fame.   

Thou died'st Marcellus, whose unvanquished name  
Shall reap applause, and be the muse's theme.  
Great Pompey's fate and thine are parallel,  
He on the sea, which he had conquered, fell.   

Ignoble mettle thee of life did reave,  
And from thy ruin honour did receive.  
But Destiny relents, and aftertimes,  
O Fates, will count his end among your crimes.   

But that decrees cannot repealed be,  
Which were ordained from all eternity;  
It ne'er had been in second causes power,  
Our hopes in thee untimely to devower.   

What cruelty to kill a Hero so?  
The Sisters should have warded that sad blow,  
And saved his life, who for his Saviour fought,  
And on his foes such sad confusion brought.   

And if from black privation were a way  
Left, to return to habit, then as day  
Succeeds the gloomy darkness of the night,  
Thou wouldst again return into the light.   

Most precious dust! may a whole Heaven be,  
Made an apartiment and an urn for thee.  
Let Honour mourn at thy sad obsequies.  
And us not sin, if we thee idolise.   

The winged Lion shall for ever roar  
The loss of thee, which time can ne'er restore.  
The sea religiously, and faithful shore,  
Thy blessed remains, thy relics shall adore.   

Marcellus! thee within his golden line,  
The Sun invites, to make a thirteenth sign:  
No panegyric is enough for thee,  
Whose death is the reproach of Destiny.   

Be to thy Country a new Star, dispense  
To us thy light, and welcome influence:  
And from thy Country in exchange accept,  
Endless returns of honour and respect.   

The pious Trojan, who a journey made,  
To seek his Sire in the Elysian shade,  
Found a Marcellus there. In Heaven we  
'Mongst those bright lights shall a Marcellus see.   

Thee our sea-Cards and sailors, as they go,  
With th'Cynosure, and other signs, shall show.  
Twixt the fixed Stars and Planets is thy place,  
Where all ingenious minds on thee shall gaze.   

Those Gentlemen, whom Fate intends for brave,  
Shall thee the Star in their Ascendent have.  
That Geniture must highly hopeful be,  
And they who have it, generous like thee.   

Astronomers new Astrolabes shall get,  
Such as Copernicus had never yet,  
To take thy altitude, who evermore  
Shalt blast the Thracian fields, and Asian shore.   

Blessed Star! live, flourish, and be ever bright,  
And dazzle the beholders with thy light.  
Thy rays for good prognostics shall be took,  
On which with pleasure we will always look.   

Mean while the Vessels burn, and greedy flames  
Scarce leave so much as ashes of their names:  
The Sea insults, and all within her power,  
Though thousand lives, does ravenously devour.   

Flames, wounds, and water, every one do vie,  
Through whose occasion, most that day should die.  
Whilst Fortune drunk with slaughter, does deride,  
And turn her back upon the vanquished side.   

Souls doomed to ruin vows to heaven make,  
If they the fury of the flames do scape.  
But still pursued by fire, no way is found  
To shun that fate, but only to be drowned.   

The black Abyss sets open all her gates,  
Impatient to attend the lingering fates:  
And sucks down men to her Dominions still,  
As if the flames alas were slow to kill.   

Many sad Ohs and Cries did rise in throngs,  
From men's oppressed hearts unto their tongues:  
But cruel seas soon interrupt their groans,  
And drown at once the Mourner and his moans.   

But the arch-Traitor 'scape the fate oth'day,  
And from his broken Army gets away:  
Swells like a toad, fumes, execrates and bans,  
And off himself can scarce withhold his hands.   

To his own rage a prey, himself does hate,  
His Nation shame, and is his Prince his fate.  
The Villain to Byzantium makes amain,  
Scorned, mortified, alone, without a train.   

To paint him, LIBERI, take some face that's dead,  
And put me eyes of Serpents in his head:  
Such burning, murdering eyes, as may inspire  
Charms and destruction, terror, plagues, and fire.   

Make black Despair upon his forehead sit,  
And let his teeth with green Disdain be whet;  
Upon his knee in twists his hands enfold,  
Or let his hand his leaning head uphold.   

Psyche for fear of Venus went to hell,  
That dreadful place, where shades and darkness dwell:  
She can instruct thy pencil what to do,  
And how the anguish of the damned does show.   

When thou wouldst draw his checks, let there appear  
The face of sadness, sadness dressed in fear:  
That when we would express a horrid look,  
This piece for the example may be took.   

Make me a Troop of Tritons chasing him,  
Making of mouths, and hissing as they swim:  
Then let the sea-Nymphs following in a flock,  
In jeering Sonnets the foul coward mock.   

Then change thy pencil, lest his figure should  
Infuse some damned infection in thy blood.  
That devilish bassa will do mischief still,  
His breath is poison, and his eyes will kill.   

When thou thy hand hast cleansed, let me see  
The Hero painted, who Eternity  
In high immortal actions seeks, whom Fame  
Gives but one eye, that he may surer aim.   

Paint him me like the Sun returned from rest,  
When with new splendour he salutes the East;  
Then let thy subtle Art itself surpass,  
And as thou drawest him, make the Stars thy glass.   

You understand what greatness is, you know  
The bounds of Honour, and how far they go.  
In him make all great qualities appear,  
Cheerful, and grave, and lovely, and severe.   

Make him me so, that on his single breast,  
His country's fate and fame may seem to rest:  
Make Marble envious, brass ambitious be,  
To represent us Objects such as he.   

Upon his sword our Faith and Freedom stand,  
And take their hopes from his victorious hand.  
Make him defend us, in the midst oth'Deep,  
His virtue wall us in, and safely keep.   

Encompass him with Trumpets, in his face  
Such happy lines and signatures enchase,  
That men may see who do those lines behold,  
His looks do second, what the stars have told.   

Let ancient now to modern times give place,  
And the old Heroes deeds in silence pass.  
On a new theme let Fame her breath employ,  
And with her Trumpet, Mocenico cry.   

Remember Bembo too unvanquished,  
By his high Genius to great actions led;  
Which will make his from others glory known,  
He hath a stock of glory of his own.   

The noble sword which that brave hand does wed,  
Which was to battles born, and conquests bred,  
Has made illustrious the Egean coast,  
Which Neptune now of all his Seas shall boast.   

For that great warrior draw a Grove of bays,  
Of fame and glory him a Trophy raise:  
And when you would present him his own face,  
Let glittering swords and helmets be the Glass.   

Th'other Marcellus, who, if there were need,  
Atlas might choose in great Alcides' steed;  
To whom so much of our success we owe,  
Who 'gainst the Tyrant did such wonders do.   

Put me in some conspicuous place, where he  
From other Heroes may distinguished be  
By some known difference, whilst busy Fame,  
Seeks for new titles to adorn his name.   

Who did receive our dying Captain's breath,  
And grieving followed to the shades of death,  
If death may properly be said to shade  
One, who so bright and brave an end has made.   

To Barbaro and Badoaro next,  
See thou some lasting monument erect'st,  
Which to their virtues may have due regard,  
That merit once may reap its just reward.   

Delineate in their faces all that's brave,  
The taking mien, which power and valour have.  
And prostrate at their feet let the Turks seem  
Content, & proud that they have conquered them.   

The routs, confusions, tumults, flights, and all  
Dysasters, which on th'Infidel did fall:  
Assaults and wounds, which made so many bleed,  
Make from their hands and counsels to proceed.   

Let Morosini, whose deserving worth,  
Might take Fame wholly up to set it forth,  
Whose valour others did to Battle heat,  
Which Fame in spite of Time will ne'er forget.   

Let him new graces to thy pencil give,  
And in his image let thy colours live:  
Let him adorn thy touches with his light,  
And make the lustre of thy name more bright.   

Let young Farnese, who with fortune blessed  
Of vintages of virtue is possessed,  
Who marching o'er the bodies of the dead,  
Did honour out of death and danger tread.   

Who to great Ancestors no honour owes,  
Since by his noble deeds their honour grows:  
'Tis they by him, he not by them appears,  
Darkening their noon ith'morning of his years,   

Be he the top of all thy Art can do,  
The scope of what thy thoughts can reach unto.  
Here let thy mind work wonders, whilst his worth  
Like gems does dress, and set thy glory forth.   

Next in thy work that noble Chief unroll,  
Who Malta's cross did to the sky extol,  
Whence military Fame does fetch renown,  
And makes her honour by their actions known.   

His dazzling countenance let his helmet shroud,  
As when the Sun is shaded with a cloud:  
Then let me see collected in his face,  
The grace and beauty of Caraffi's race.   

'Twas a fit match the shining silver Cross,  
To black Tartarean darkness to oppose.  
'Twas fit the furious infidel should yield,  
When by such force attaqu'd, and quit the field.   

Borri, thou breathe of Mars, 'tis hard to say,  
Whether thy sword or with did more that day.  
Thy name is fatal, and thy virtue rare,  
And wonders of thy prowess extant are.   

In lasting colours thou, by LIBERI's hand,  
Which triumphs o'er devouring Time, shall stand.  
Virtue and honour LIBERI are the Poles,  
Round which thy pencil like a Heaven rolls.   

In Mountain tops, the Muses do delight,  
Those lovely solitudes makes Poets write.  
But when Bellona thunders, thou canst draw,  
And give that goddess sweetness with her awe.   

Record those brave immortal souls, who raise  
Their country's name, and dress her with their bays,  
In thy eternal works, and let them fly,  
And wing thy pencil when thou soarest on high.   

In the dark crowd, which hides deservers fames,  
Draw thou resemblances, and learn their names,  
And them distinguish, who have bravely done,  
Let them be gay and glorious as the Sun.   

But 'tis not just, LIBERI, we should be blamed,  
That all who fought & conquered are not named.  
The milky way that's full of stars does shine,  
Though single stars which make it, are not seen.   

Whole Troops and Companies did bravely do,  
And great examples of high virtue show.  
Time, to whose rage all other things must yield,  
Shall tell their deeds, and celebrate this field.   

A Grecian Painter with a veil did dress,  
That which no Art could figure or express,  
So what those others famous actions were,  
Shall now be left to Silence to declare.   

We see the Mute can with his gesture speak,  
And Silence has her rhetoric, which does take.  
My pen conceals, for whom my soul's on fire,  
Whom in unspeaking rhymes I do admire.   

But what, must fair Cleina lie forgot  
In dark oblivion, by thee heeded not?  
Scornest thou that flame, which will to pity move  
All hearts, that ever had a sense of love?   

Cleina was a fair Arabian Maid,  
Nature a brighter beauty never made:  
But sorrow now her darkened face besets,  
And turns her lilies into Violets.   

This charming beauty had from Regions far  
Followed her servant Mustapha to war;  
And all in black, disconsolate, alone,  
Filled all the Eastern Countries with her moan.   

On a steep cliff she stood to view the storm,  
To see what Mustapha did there perform:  
She saw him fight, and fate in vain oppose,  
Provoking his own ruin with his blows.   

No danger him approached, but cost her tears,  
With a divided soul twixt grief and fears;  
When with her fortune and herself displeased,  
Her heart afflicted with such words she eased.   

Thou fighte'st, my Mustapha, and I in vain  
With tears would heal the wounds thou dost sustain.  
O Heavens, are my sighs so much despised,  
And mighty love by you so little prized?   

Ah dear alas! too dear to me has been  
The preparation of this bloody Scene.  
The purple streaks which on that helmet shine,  
Do lead to death this wounded heart of mine.   

I would usurp those blows, I fain would have  
You hurt Cleina, but Mustapha save.  
Ah! that cursed sword two lives does kill in one,  
For how can mine remain, when his is gone?   

Me, Christians, me alone assault, let me  
The mark and centre of your fury be.  
My constant heart Fate cannot overthrow,  
I scorn your Nation, and your fortune too.   

Stay, my dear heart, my treasure stay, and take  
These Tresses, which swaths for thy wounds will make,  
Hold, bind them with my hair my Idol, hold,  
And set the rubies of thy blood in gold.   

Here grief with her cold snowy hand did seize  
Cleina, and her blood to jelly freeze:  
The lively roses in her cheeks did fade,  
And with one painful sigh an end she made.   

Cleina died, her soul made haste away,  
To be an Harbinger for Mustapha.  
But he immediately departed too,  
And both descended to the Deeps below.   

But since united souls can know no hell,  
But make it heaven wheresoever they dwell:  
They soon were separated, to receive  
The pains are doomed to those, who not believe.   

Charon had now almost worn out his Oar,  
And his boat foundered with the weight it bore,  
And the black Monarch of the shades begun  
To be with pity touched for what was done.   

But they who for the Faith had shed their blood,  
Blessed souls in th' Empyrean heaven stood,  
Full of eternal joys, and endless bliss,  
'Mongst the beatified Hierarchies.   

And looking on those ruins here below,  
Those legs and arms which floated too and fro;  
Those scattered spoils of death, they smiled to see,  
Those prisons torn, from which themselves were free.   

'Tis but a slight mishap to want a grave,  
Unburied bones for cover heaven have.  
Thirsty Oblivion cannot them destroy,  
Who made for bliss Eternity enjoy.   

Now LIBERI grow warm, take in new flame,  
Occasion serves, immortalize thy name:  
Use all thy wit, temper thy colours so,  
That they may live for aftertimes to know.   

The Picture here shall with the Painter strive,  
Which of the two shall make the other live:  
Thou in the work eternised canst not die,  
And thou shalt give thy work eternity.   

That blood which from the Christians sides did strean,  
Shall make thy work as noble as its theme.  
Thou dost exceed all that the ancients did,  
And in thy glory shalt their glory hide.   

That very linen's happy, which must be  
The field, on which thou drawest this History.  
If betwixt thee and others, there's such odds,  
That shaming men, thou dost approach the gods.   

I who persuade thee to this enterprise,  
With thy abundance, feel my Genius rise.  
To sing thy virtues I ambitious grow,  
Which this affront to eating Time will do.   

Join nights to days, take no repose, but strive  
In spite of Destiny two lives to live:  
Let both them long, and both them glorious be.  
One life's too little for thy work and thee.   

This armed cloth, this martial picture will  
With envy war, and be victorious still.  
And against hatred in thy company,  
My Muse perchance shall fill her sails, and fly.   

Our hands are used such works as these to do,  
I can in numbers draw, in colours you.  
But let our flights be modest as they will,  
We meet with censure and accusers still.   

But a good conscience is a calm, and knows  
No storms, nor vexes at the wind that blows.  
Let envious tongues my name with slander tear,  
I am at peace within, and do not hear.   

But let my pen unto thy pencil bow,  
To thy bright colours ink is dark and low.  
This is a bare Idea I have took,  
Do thou it clothe, and make it handsome look.   

Then draw thyself in heat of battle, wrought,  
With the same air and looks, as they that fought,  
That thy own Figure done by thy own hand,  
May over Death itself triumphing stand.   
FINIS.