Secular Poetry.

1.

THE DELIGHTS OF THE MUSES

(1616).

MUSICK'S DUELL.1

Now Westward Sol had spent the richest beams
Of Noon's high glory, when hard by the streams
Of Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat,

Vnder protection of an oake, there sate

A sweet Lute's-master; in whose gentle aires

He lost the daye's 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 musick's soft report, and mold the same

In her owne murmures, that what ever mood
His curious fingers lent, her voyce made good:

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1 Appeared originally in 'Delights' of 1646 (pp. 103-7): was reprinted in 1648 (pp. 1-5), and 1670 (pp. 81-6). Our text is that of 1648, as before; but all agree. See Notes and Illustrations at close of this poem for other two earlier translations, and our Essay for the original Latin, with critical remarks. In our illustrated quarto edition will be found a pathetic and daintily-rendered illustration, done expressly for us by Mrs. Blackburn of Glasgow, and engraved by W. J. Linton, Esq. G.

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,

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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 treble's grace;
The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,
Vntill 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 Death's field, and woo
Men's 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

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Of short, thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes float
And roule themselves over her lubrick throat

In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,

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That ever-bubling spring; the sugred nest
Of her delicious soule, that there does lye

Bathing in streames of liquid melodie;

Musick's best seed-plot, whence in ripen'd aires
A golden-headed harvest fairely reares

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