In creame of Morning Helicon, and then
Preferre soft-Anthems to the Eares of men,
To woo them from their Beds, still murmuring
That men can sleepe while they their Mattens sing:
(Most divine service) whose so early lay,
Prevents the Eye lidds of the blushing day!
There you might heare her kindle her soft voyce,
In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse,
And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song,
Still keeping in the forward streame, so long
Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to get out)
Heaves her soft Bosome, wanders round about,
And makes a pretty Earthquake in her Breast,
Till the fledg'd Notes at length forsake their Nest,
Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the Sky
Wing'd with their owne wild Eccho's pratling fly.
Shee opes the floodgate, and lets loose a Tide
Of streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth ride
On the way'd backe of every swelling straine,
Rising and falling in a pompous traine.
And while she thus discharges a shrill peale
Of flashing Aires; she qualifies their zeale
With the coole Epode of a graver Noat,
Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat
Would reach the brasen voyce of war's hoarce Bird;
Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'd
Into loose extasies, that shee is plac't
Above her selfe, Musicks Enthusiast.
Shame now and anger mixt a double staine
In the Musitians face; yet once againe
(Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my Lute
Above her mocke, or be for ever mute.
Or tune a song of victory to me,
Or to thy selfe, sing thine owne Obsequie;
So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings,
And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings.
The sweet-lip't sisters musically frighted,
Singing their feares are fearefully delighted.
Trembling as when Appollo's golden haires
Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayres
Of his own breath: which marryed to his lyre.
Doth tune the Sphæares, and make Heavens selfe looke higher
From this to that, from that to this he flyes
Feeles Musicks pulse in all her Arteryes,
Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocall threads,
Following those little rills, he sinkes into
A Sea of Helicon; his hand does goe
Those parts of sweetnesse which with Nectar drop,
Softer then that which pants in Hebe's cup.
The humourous strings expound his learned touch,
By various Glosses; now they seeme to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingle
In shrill tongu'd accents: striving to be single.
Every smooth turne, every delicious stroake
Gives life to some new Grace; thus doth h'invoke
Sweetnesse by all her Names; thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)
The Lutes light Genius now does proudly rise,
Heav'd on the surges of swolne Rapsodyes.
Whose flourish (Meteor-like) doth curle the aire
With flash of high-borne fancyes: here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone:
Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild aires
Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares
Because those pretious mysteryes that dwell,
In musick's ravish't soule he dares not tell,
But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary
Each string his Note, as if they meant to carry
Their Masters blest soule (snatcht out at his Eares
By a strong Extasy) through all the sphæares
Of Musicks 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 Diapason swallowes all.
This done, he lists what she would say to this, And she although her Breath's late exercise Had dealt too roughly with her tender throate, Yet summons all her sweet powers for a Noate Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule) she tryes To measure all those wild diversities
Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poore simple voyce, rais'd in a naturall Tone;
She failes, and failing grieves; and grieving dyes.
She dyes and leaves her life the Victors prise,
Falling upon his Lute; ô fit to have
(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a Grave!
:
Ad Reginam.
T verò jam tempus erat tibi, maxima Mater,
Tempus erat, nè qua tibi basia blanda vacarent;
Sarcina ne collo sit minus apta tuo.
Scilicet ille tuus, timor & spes ille suorum,
Quo primum es fælix pignore facta parens, Ille ferox iras jam nunc meditatur & enses;
Fam patris magis est, jam magis ille suus. Indolis O stimulos! Vix dum illi transiit infans ; Famque sibi impatiens arripit ille virum. Improbus ille suis adeò negat ire sub annis:
Jam nondum puer est, major & est puero.
Si quis in aulæis pictas animatus in iras
Stat leo, quem doctâ cuspide lusit acus,
Hostis (io!) est; neq enim ille alium dignabitur hostem;
Nempe decet tantas non minor ira manus.
Tunc hasta gravis adversùm furit; hasta bacillum est:
Mox falsum vero vulnere pectus hiat.
Stat leo, ceu stupeat tali bene fixus ab hoste;
Ceu quid in his oculis vel timeat vel amet,
Tam torvum, tam dulce micant: nescire fatetur
Mars ne sub his oculis esset, an esset Amor.
Quippe illic Mars est, sed qui bene possit amari;
Est & Amor certè, sed metuendus Amor:
Talis Amor, talis Mars est ibi cernere; qualis
Seu puer hic esset, sive vir ille deus.
Hic tibi jam scitus succedit in oscula fratris,
Res (ecce!) in lusus non operosa tuos.
Basia jam veniant tua quantacunque caterva;
Jam quocunque tuus murmure ludat amor,
En! Tibi materies tenera & tractabilis hic est:
Hic ad blanditias est tibi cera satis.
Salve infans, tot basiolis, molle argumentum,
Maternis labiis dulce negotiolum,
O salve! Nam te nato, puer aurëe, natus
Et Carolo & Mariæ tertius est oculus.
Out of Martiall.
FOure
Oure Teeth thou had'st that ranck'd in goodly state
Kept thy Mouthes Gate.
The first blast of thy cough left two alone,
The second, none.
This last cough Elia, cought out all thy feare,
Th'hast left the third cough now no businesse here.
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