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First Line: Laude, honor, praisingis, thankis infinite
Last Line: And do to me as ye would be done to.
Alternate Author Name(s): Douglas, Gawain
Variant Title(s): His Apologie
Subject(s): Translating & Interpreting


LAUDE, honor, praisingis, thankis infinite
To thee, and thy dulce ornate fresh indite,
Maist reverend Virgil, of Latin poetis prince,
Gem of ingine and flood of eloquence.

. . . . .

In every volume whilk thee list do write
Surmounting far all other manner indite,
Like as the rose in June with her sweet smell
The marigold or daisy doth excel.
Why suld I then, with dull forheid and vain,
With rude ingine and barren emptive brain,
With bad harsh speech and lewit barbour tongue,
Presume to write whare thy sweet bell is rung,
Or counterfeit sa precious wordis dear?
Na, na, nocht swa, bot kneel when I them hear.

. . . . .

And natheless with support and correctioun
For natural love and friendful affectioun,
Whilkis I bear to thy warkis and indite,
Although, God wat, tharein I knaw full lyte,
And that thy facund sentence mycht be sung
In our language as weill as Latin tongue;
As weill, na, na, impossible were, per de,
Yet with thy leave, Virgil, to follow thee,
I wald into my rural vulgar gross
Write some savouring of thyne Eneados.
Bot sair I dread for to distene thee quite
Through my corruptit cadence imperfyte;
Distene thee, nay forsooth, that may I nocht,
Weill may I shaw my burell, busteous thocht,
Bot thy work sal endure in laud and glory,
But spot or fault, condign, eterne memory.
Though I offend unwemmyt is thy fame,
Thine is the thank, and mine sall be the shame.
Wha may thy versis follow in all degree,
In beauty, sentence and in gravity?
None is, nor was, nor yet sall be, trow I,
Had, has, or sall have, sic craft in poetry.

. . . . .

And thus I make my protestatioun.
First I protest, beau schiris, by your leif
Beis weill advisit my werk or ye reprief;
Consider it warely, read ofter than anis,
Weill, at ane blenk, slee poetry nocht ta'en is.
And yet forsooth I set my busy pain,
As that I couth, to make it braid and plain,
Kepand na Sudroun bot our own langage,
And speakis as I lernit when I was page.
Nor yet sa clean all Sudroun I refuse
Bot some word I pronounce as nychbour dois.
Like as in Latin bene Greek termis some,
So me behuvit whilom, or than be dumb,
Some bastard Latin, French or Inglis use,
Where scant were Scottis; I had na other choiss.
Nocht for our tongue is in the selvin scant,
Bot for that I the fouth of langage want,
Where as the colour of his propertie
To keep the sentence, thereto constrainit me,
Or than to mak my saying short sometime,
Mair compendious, or to likely my ryme.
Therefore, guid friendis, for ane gymp or a bourd,
I pray you, note me not at every word.

. . . . .

Adherand to my protestatioun
Though William Caxton, of Inglis natioun,
In prose has prent ane buik of Inglis gross
Clepand it Virgil in Eneados,
Whilk that, he says, of French he did translate,
It has na thing ado therewith, God wait,
Nor na mair like than the devil and Sanct Austyne;
Have he na thank therefor bot lose his pyne,
So shamefully that story did pervert;
I read his werk with harmis at my hert,
That sic ane book, but sentence or ingyne,
Suld be intitillit efter the poet divine.

. . . . .

Traist on na wise at this my work be sic,
Whilk did my best, as my wit mycht attain
Virgilis versis to follow, and nathing feign.
Ye worthy nobillis readis my werkis forthy
And cast this other book on side far by,
Whilk, under colour of some French strange wicht
So Frenchly leis, uneth two wordis gais richt.
I nald ye traist I said this for despite,
For me list with na Inglis bookis flyte,
Na with na bogil na browny to debate,
Noder auld ghaistis nor spreitis deid of late.
Nor na man wil I lakkin or despise
My werkis till authoreis be sic wise.

. . . . .

Bot touching Virgilis honour and reverence,
Wha ever contrarie, I mon stand at defence,
And bot my book be fundin worth sic three
When it is read, do warp it in the sea,
Thraw it in the fire, or rent it every crum.
Touchand that part, lo! here is all and sum.
Syne I defend and forbiddis every wicht
That can nocht spell their Pater Noster richt
For till correct or yet amend Virgil,
Or the translator blame in his vulgar style.
I knaw what pain is to follow him foot hait,
Albeit thou think my saying intricate.
Traist weill, to follow ane fixt sentence or matter
Is mair practic, difficil, and mair straiter,
Though thine ingyne be elevate and hie,
Than for to write all ways at libertie.
Gif I had nocht bene to ane boundis constrainit,
Of my bad wit, perchance, I culd have feignit
In ryme ane ragmen twice as curious,
Bot nocht by twenty part, sa sententious.
Wha is attachit ontil a stake, we see,
May go no farrer, bot wrele about that tree;
Richt so am I to Virgilis text ybound,
I may nocht flee, les than ane fault be found,
For though I wald transcend and go beside
His werk remanis, my shame I can nocht hide;
And thus I am constrainit, als near I may,
To hald his verse and go no other way,
Les some history, subtle word, or the ryme
Causis me mak digressioun some time.

. . . . .

Beside Latin our language is imperfite,
Whilk in some part is the cause and wyte
Why that of Virgilis verse the ornate beauty
Intill our tongue may nocht observit be;
For there be Latin wordis many ane
That in our leid ganand translatioun has nane
Les than we mynis thar sentence and gravity;
And yet scant weill exponit; wha trowis nocht me
Lat them interpret animal and homo
With mony hundred other termis mo
Whilkis in our language soothly, as I ween,
Few men can tell me clearly what they mean.
Betwixt genus, sexus and species
Diversity to seek in our leid I ceis.
For objectum and subjectum alswa
He war expert culd find me termis twa.

. . . . .

Bot yet touchand our tongis penuritie, --
I mean unto compare of fair Latin
That knawin is maist perfyte language fyne.

. . . . .

God wat, in Virgil are termis mony ane hunder
For to expone made me ane felloun blunder,
To follow alanerlie Virgilis wordis, I ween,
There suld few understand me what they mean
The beauty of his ornate eloquence
May nocht all time be kepit with the sentence.
Sanct Gregor eik forbiddis us to translate
Word after word, bot sentence follow allgait.
Wha haldis, quod he, of wordis the properteis
Full oft the verity of the sentence fleeis.
And to the samin purpose may apply
Horatius in his Art of Poetry.
Press nocht, says he, thou traist interpreter,
Word after word to translate thy matter.
Lo! he repreifis, and haldis mis-seeming
Aye word by word to reduce ony thing.

. . . . .

Forgive me Virgil, gif I thee offend,
Pardon thy scholar, suffer him to ryme
Sen thou was bot a mortal man sometime.
In case I fail have me nocht at disdain,
Though I be lewit, my leil heart can nocht feign,
I sall thee follow, suld I tharefor have blame?
Wha can do better, say furth in Goddis name.
I shrink not anis correckit for to be
With ony wicht groundit on charity,
And gladly wald I baith inquire and leir,
And to ilk cunnand wicht lay to my ear;
Bot laith me were, but other offence or crime,
Ane burell body suld intertrike my ryme;
Though some wald swear that I the text have wareit
Or that I have this volume quite miscareit,
Or threip plainlie that I com never near hand it,
Or that the werk is werse than ever I fand it,
Or yet argue Virgil stude weill before,
As now were time to shift the verse ourscore;
Ellis have I said, there may be na compare
Betwix his versis and my style vulgair.
Although he stand in Latyn maist perfite,
Yet stude he never weill in our tongue indite,
Les than it be by me now at this time;
Gif I have failit, baldly reprove my ryme,
Bot first I pray you, grape the matter clean,
Reproach me nocht whill the work be ourseen.
Beis nocht ourstudious to spy a mote in my ee
That in your own a ferry-boat cannot see!
And do to me as ye would be done to.





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