OF THE
MUSES.
OR,
Other Poems written on severall occasions.
By Richard Crashaw, sometimes of Pembroke Hall, and late Fellow of St. Peters Colledge in Cambridge.
Mart. Dic mihi quid melius desidiosus agas.
LONDON,
Printed by T.W. for H. Moseley, at
the Princes Armes in S. Pauls
Church-yard, 1648.
Musicks Duell.
NOW
Ow Westward Sol had spent the richest Beams Of Noons high Glory, when hard by the streams Of Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat, Under protection of an Oake; there sate A sweet Lutes-master: in whose gentle aires He lost the Dayes heat, and his owne hot cares. Close in the covert of the leaves there stood A Nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood: (The sweet inhabitant of each glad Tree, Their Muse, their Syren, harmlesse Syren she) There stood she listning, and did entertaine The Musicks soft report: and mold the same In her owne murmures, that what ever mood His curious fingers lent, her voyce made good: The man perceiv'd his Rivall, and her Art, Dispos'd to give the light-foot Lady sport Awakes his Lute, and 'gainst the fight to come Informes it, in a sweet Præludium Of closer straines, and ere the warre begin, He lightly skirmishes on every string
Charg'd with a flying touch: and streightway she
Carves out her dainty voyce as readily,
Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd Tones,
And reckons up in soft divisions,
Quicke 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 capring cheerefullnesse; and made them sing
To their owne dance; now negligently rash
He throwes his Arme, and with a long drawne dash
Blends all together; then distinctly tripps
From this to that; then quicke returning skipps
And snatches this again, and pauses there.
Shee measures every measure, every where
Meets art with art; sometimes as if in doubt,
Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out,
Trayles her plaine Ditty in one long-spun note,
Through the sleeke passage of her open throat,
A cleare unwrinckled song; then doth shee point it
With tender accents, and severely joynt it
By short diminutives, that being rear'd
In controverting warbles evenly shar'd,
With her sweet selfe shee wrangles. Hee amazed
That from so small a channell should be rais'd
The torrent of a voyce, whose melody
Could melt into such sweet variety,
Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare art
The tatling strings (each breathing in his part)
Most kindly doe fall out; the grumbling Base
In surly groans disdaines the Trebles Grace;
The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,
Untill his finger (Moderatour) hides
And closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all
Hoarce, shrill, at once; as when the Trumpets call
Hot Mars to th'Harvest of Deaths field, and woo
Mens hearts into their hands: this lesson too
Shee gives him back; her supple Brest thrills out
Sharpe Aires, and staggers in a warbling doubt
Of dallying sweetnesse, hovers o're her skill,
And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling bill
The plyant Series of her slippery song;
Then starts shee suddenly into a Throng
Of short thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes float,
And roule themselves over her lubrick throat
In panting murmurs, still'd out of her Breast,
That ever-bubling spring; the sugred Nest
Of her delicious soule, that there does lye
Bathing in streames of liquid Melodie;
Musicks best seed-plot, where in ripen'd Aires
A Golden-headed Harvest fairely reares
His Honey-dropping tops, plow'd by her breath
Which there reciprocally laboureth
In that sweet soyle, it seemes a holy quire
Founded to th' Name of great Apollo's lyre,
Whose silver-roofe rings with the sprightly notes
Of sweet-lipp'd Angell-Imps, that swill their throats
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