Theyr fruitfull sentence was grete rychesse, The whych ryght surely they myght well domyne, For lordshyp, welth, and also noblesse, The chaunce of fortune can some determyne. But what for this? she can not declyne The noble science, whiche, after poverte, Maye bryng a man agayne to dignitie.
Theyr sentence is connyng, as appereth well, For by conning theyr arte doth engendre, And wythout connyng we knowe never a dele, Of theyr sentence, but may sone surrendre A true tale, that myght to us rendre Grete pleasure, if we were intelligible Of theyr connyng nothyng impossible.
O what pleasure to the intelligent It is to knowe and have perceyveraunce Of theyr connyng, so much expedient, And therof to have good utteraunce! Redyng newe thynges of so grete pleasaunce, Fedyng the mynd wyth foode insaciate, The tales newe they are so delicate.
In an example, with a mysty cloud Of covert lykenesse, the poetes do wryte; And underneth the trouth doth so shroude, Both good and yll, as they lyst acquyte, With similitude they dyd so well endyte, As I here after shall the trouth sone shew, Of all theyr mysty and theyr fatall dewe.
The poetes fayne how that kyng Athlas Heaven should bere upon his shoulders hye; Because in connyng he dyd all other pas, Especially in the hygh astronomye: Of the vi. planettes he knewe so perfytly The operacions, how they were domified; For whych poetes hym so exemplyfied.
And in lyke wyse, unto the Sagittary They feyne the Centures to be of lykenesse, As halfe man and halfe horse truely; Because Mylyzyus wyth hys worthynesse Dyd fyrst attame and breke the wyldenes Of the riall stedes, and ryght swyftly Hys men and he rode on them surely.
And also Pluto, somtyme kynge of hell; A cyte of Grece, standyng in Thessayle, Betwene grete rockes, as the boke doth tell, Wherin were people wythout any fayle, Huge, fyerse, and strong in battayle, Tyrauntes, theves, replete with treason; Wherfore poetes, by true comparison,
Unto the devylles, blacke and tedious, Dyd them resemble, in terrible fygure, For theyr mysselyvyng so foule and vycyous, As to thys daye it doth appere in ure Of Cerebus the defloured pycture, The porter of hell, wyth thre heades ugly, Lyke an horrible gyaunt fyrce and wonderly: