Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,
And reckons up in soft divisions

Quick volumes of wild notes, to let him know,

By that shrill taste, she could do something too.
His nimble hands' instinct then taught each string
A cap'ring cheerfulness, and made them sing
To their own dance; now negligently rash

He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash
Blends all together, then distinctly trips
From this to that, then quick returning skips
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
She measures ev'ry measure, ev'ry where
Meets art with art; sometimes, as if in doubt,
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note,
Through the sleek passage of her open throat,
A clear unwrinkled song; then doth she point it
With tender accents, and severely joint it
By short diminutives, that being rear'd
In controverting warbles ev'nly shared,
With her sweet self she wrangles; he, amazed
That from so small a channel should be raised
The torrent of a voice whose melody

Could melt into such sweet variety,

Strains higher yet, that tickled with rare art
The tattling strings (each breathing in his part)
Most kindly do fall out; the grumbling base
In surly groans disdains the treble's grace;
The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides,
Until his finger (moderator) hides

And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all
Hoarse, shrill, at once; as when the trumpets call
Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo
Men's hearts into their hands; this lesson too

She gives him back; her supple breast thrills out
Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt
Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill,
And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill
The pliant series of her slipp'ry song;
Then starts she suddenly into a throng

Of short thick sobs, whose thund'ring volleys float,
And roll themselves over her lubric throat
In panting murmurs, still'd out of her breast,
That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest
Of her delicious soul, that there does lie,
Bathing in streams of liquid melody;
Music's best seed-plot; when in ripen'd airs
A golden-headed harvest fairly rears

His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her breath,
Which there reciprocally laboureth.

In that sweet soil it seems a holy choir
Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre;
Whose silver-roof rings with the sprightly notes
Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throats
In cream of morning Helicon, and then
Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men,

To woo them from their beds, still murmuring
That men can sleep while they their matins sing:
(Most Divine service) whose so early lay
Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day.
There might you hear her kindle her soft voice
In the close murmur of a sparkling noise,
And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song,
Still keeping in the forward stream, so long
Till a sweet whirlwind (striving to get out)
Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,

Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest,

Flutt'ring in wanton shoals, and to the sky,
Wing'd with their own wild echoes, prattling fly.
She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide
Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride
On the way'd back of ev'ry swelling strain,
Rising and falling in a pompous train;
And while she thus discharges a shrill peal
Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal
With the cool epode of a graver note,

Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat

Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird;
Her little soul is ravish'd, and so pour'd

Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed
Above herself, music's enthusiast.

Shame now and anger mix'd a double stain
In the musician's face; Yet once again
(Mistress) I come; now reach a strain, my lute,
Above her mock, or be for ever mute;
Or tune a song of victory to me,
Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy;'
So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,
And with a quiv'ring coyness tastes the strings:
The sweet-lipp'd sisters, musically frighted,
Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted:
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs
Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs

Of his own breath, which married to his lyre

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Doth tune the spheres, and make Heaven's self look higher.
From this to that, from that to this he flies,
Feels Music's pulse in all her arteries;
Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,
Foll'wing those little rills, he sinks into
A sea of Helicon; his hand does go

Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup;
The hum'rous strings expound his learned touch
By various glosses; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then jingle
In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single;
Ev'ry smooth turn, ev'ry delicious stroke
Gives life to some new grace; thus doth h' invoke
Sweetness by all her names; thus, bravely thus,
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heaved on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies,
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies, here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;
Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell,
But whisper to the world; thus do they vary
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears
By a strong ecstasy) through all the spheres
Of music's Heaven, and seat it there on high
In th' Empyræum of pure harmony.
At length (after so long, so loud a strife
Of all the strings, still breathing the best life
Of blest variety attending on

His fingers' fairest revolution,

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)
A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this,
And she, although her breath's late exercise

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Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note;
Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities

Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies;
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute; Oh, fit to have
(That lived so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!

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UPON THE DEATH OF A GENTLEMAN.

FAITHLESS and fond mortality,

Who will ever credit thee?

Fond and faithless thing! that thus

In our best hopes beguilest us.
What a reck'ning hast thou made,
Of the hopes in him we laid!
For life by volumes lengthened,
A line or two to speak him dead:
For the laurel in his verse,
The sullen cypress o'er his hearse:
For a silver-crowned head,
A dirty pillow in death's bed:
For so dear, so deep a trust,

Sad requital, thus much dust!

Now though the blow that snatch'd him hence,

Stopp'd the mouth of eloquence,

Though she be dumb e'er since his death,

Not used to speak but in his breath,

Yet if at least she not denies

The sad language of our eyes,

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