Classic Poem

Sit further, and make room for thine own fame,
Where just desert enrolls thy honoured name —
The good interpreter. Some in this task
Take off the cypress veil, but leave a mask,
Changing the Latin, but do more obscure
That sense in English which was bright and pure.
So of translators they are authors grown,
For ill translators make the book their own.
Others do strive with words and forcèd phrase
To add such lustre, and so many rays,
That, but to make the vessel shining, they
Much of the precious metal rub away.
He is translation's thief that addeth more,
As much as he that taketh from the store
Of the first author. Here he maketh blots
That mends; and added beauties are but spots.
Celia whose English doth more richly flow
Than Tagus, purer than dissolvèd snow,
And sweet as are her lips that speak it, she
Now learns the tongues of France and Italy;
But she is Celia still: no other grace
But her own smiles commend that lovely face;
Her native beauty's not Italianated,
Nor her chaste mind into the French translated:
Her thoughts are English, though her sparkling wit
With other language doth them fitly fit.
Translators learn of her. But stay, I slide
Down into error with the vulgar tide;
Women must not teach here: the Doctor doth
Stint them to caudles, almond-milk, and broth.
Now I reform, and surely so will all
Whose happy eyes on thy translation fall.
I see the people hasting to thy book,
Liking themselves the worse the more they look,
And so disliking, that they nothing see
Now worth the liking, but thy book and thee.
And (if I judgement have) I censure right;
For something guides my hand that I must write.
You have translation's statutes best fulfilled,
That, handling, neither sully nor would gild.