Th. Naogeorgi

That you have proscribed? How you would prefer that ancient darkness
To reign, rather than any light having arisen?
How you would prefer that gross barbarism be kept
Through kingdoms and cities: rather than languages and polished arts,
Brought forth at last by the care and study of good
Craftsmen? Just as a serpent abhors the incantations
Of the enchanter, and being caught, ties knots here and there,
So that it may tear itself away, and protect its own poisons:
So you, dire Dragon, now attempt everything with great
Counsel, and your efforts never cease.
For your head is sought, and your poison is taken away.
But you twist yourself thus in vain, and turn yourself into all things,
Like a certain Proteus a Greek sea god who could change shape. You are held entirely and in the middle:
And divine power constricts your limbs, not ours,
And destroys you with the breath of its own mouth.
What do you want for yourself then? By what pact can they appease you?
Do you want only that they forge five books of Decretals,
And publish the Sixth, and the wonderful Extravagantes papal decrees outside the main collections
With the Clementines, and the offspring of the Decrees,
And the entire farrago of the old sophists?
Do you also want the writings of Emser, Alphonsus, and Casanus,
Silvester, Faber, Latomus, Roffensis, and Eccius,
And the recently known Stanislaus, and Cochlaeus,
And your other conspirators to be the only ones
To be printed? I see that you want this. Therefore,
Typographers, put aside other books immediately,
And appease the three-headed dog with foolish little books: