A Mvsicall Consort of Heauenly harmonie (compounded out of manie parts of Musicke) called Chvrchyards Charitie [by Thomas Churchyard] |
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To the generall Readers.
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 | A Mvsicall Consort of Heauenly harmonie |  |
To the generall Readers.
I fought
amisse, you finde good Reader heere,
His fault it is, that sings ne sweete nor loud:
When he caught cold, and voice could not be cleere,
Because ech note, is cloked vnder cloud,
He craud no helpe, nor stole from no mans song,
One peece nor part, of musicke any waie:
Ne sembreeffe, breefe, nor yet ne larke nor long,
For he hath skill, in deskant some men saie,
And on the base, can make three parts in one,
And set new songs, when all the old are gone.
Though some beleeue, but hardly that he makes,
These things or that, which seemes far past his reach,
Tush though old head, and hand with paulsie shakes,
Let no ill will, plaine writers pen appeach:
If you do loue, no wrong giue ech man right:
Rob not the iust, of any praise well won,
Way not mens worth, with waights in ballance light,
For truth is truth, when all is saide and don:
You may as well, say white and red is blacke,
And Sun and Moone, are steele and marble stone:
As say or thinke, behinde a writers backe.
He borrowed that, which he claimes as his owne:
O giue men leaue, to father their owne childe:
Let it be foule, or faire as babies are,
A stubborne boye, a cracke-rope tame or wilde,
Begot in haste, and brought vp poore and bare:
How ere they be, blinde, lame, or shapt awrie,
Vglie to sight, bigge, boulchons lowe or hie,
Those yoonglings all, the Dad can not denie,
Are his that sent, those babes abroad to nurse,
(Like orphants weake, that knowes not what to do)
With blessings great, and not with parents curse,
That shortens life, and gets Gods anger to:
Children were woont, to beare their fathers name,
Not one durst say, in earnest iest or skorne,
(To hinder childe, of spotlesse birth and fame)
A lawfull sonne, was but a bastard borne.
Both beast and bird, their yoong ones do defend,
So shall my Muse, maintaine that I haue pend,
Then bring Shores wife, in question now no more,
I set hir foorth, in colours as she goes,
His fault it is, that sings ne sweete nor loud:
When he caught cold, and voice could not be cleere,
Because ech note, is cloked vnder cloud,
He craud no helpe, nor stole from no mans song,
One peece nor part, of musicke any waie:
Ne sembreeffe, breefe, nor yet ne larke nor long,
For he hath skill, in deskant some men saie,
And on the base, can make three parts in one,
And set new songs, when all the old are gone.
Though some beleeue, but hardly that he makes,
These things or that, which seemes far past his reach,
Tush though old head, and hand with paulsie shakes,
Let no ill will, plaine writers pen appeach:
If you do loue, no wrong giue ech man right:
Rob not the iust, of any praise well won,
Way not mens worth, with waights in ballance light,
For truth is truth, when all is saide and don:
You may as well, say white and red is blacke,
And Sun and Moone, are steele and marble stone:
As say or thinke, behinde a writers backe.
He borrowed that, which he claimes as his owne:
O giue men leaue, to father their owne childe:
Let it be foule, or faire as babies are,
A stubborne boye, a cracke-rope tame or wilde,
Begot in haste, and brought vp poore and bare:
How ere they be, blinde, lame, or shapt awrie,
Vglie to sight, bigge, boulchons lowe or hie,
Those yoonglings all, the Dad can not denie,
Are his that sent, those babes abroad to nurse,
(Like orphants weake, that knowes not what to do)
With blessings great, and not with parents curse,
That shortens life, and gets Gods anger to:
Children were woont, to beare their fathers name,
Not one durst say, in earnest iest or skorne,
A lawfull sonne, was but a bastard borne.
Both beast and bird, their yoong ones do defend,
So shall my Muse, maintaine that I haue pend,
Then bring Shores wife, in question now no more,
I set hir foorth, in colours as she goes,
Sir Rafe Bowser a worshipfull knight witnesseth where and when I penned that.
And as she went, like gallant lasse before,
So other gyrls, as gaie and fresh as rose,
With verse haue I, set foorth in sundrie sorts,
As braue as she, what ere disdaine reports,
That humor now, declines for age drawes on,
The full tide is, of fine inuention gon:
Ebbe followes floud, when vitall vaines waxe dead,
Wit weares and wastes, as torch consumes with winde,
When water turnes, drie growes a flowing head:
In age ech thing, decaies by course of kinde:
Yet whiles the oyle, in lampe may make a blaze,
Or candell in, the socket shewes a light,
On sparkling flame, the cleerest eies will gaze,
And comfort finde, thereby in darkest night:
I yeeld to time, that like a sit be cuts cleane,
All that doth grow, in spring or fall of leafe,
And wish in world, my treble were a meane,
That I might sing, to eares that are not deafe,
A note should sinke, as deepe in iugging brest,
As euer yet, in sea did ancker rest:
Songs are but like, as fancies giues them leaue,
Both well and ill, as sounds of trumpets are,
Though Syrens voice, the hearers doth deceaue,
Mine hath no charme, but open plaine and bare,
As I was borne, so speake I English still,
To lose my paines, and win the worlds good will,
No losse so much, as credit crackt with pen,
Nor gaine so great, as loue of honest men.
So other gyrls, as gaie and fresh as rose,
With verse haue I, set foorth in sundrie sorts,
As braue as she, what ere disdaine reports,
That humor now, declines for age drawes on,
The full tide is, of fine inuention gon:
Ebbe followes floud, when vitall vaines waxe dead,
Wit weares and wastes, as torch consumes with winde,
When water turnes, drie growes a flowing head:
In age ech thing, decaies by course of kinde:
Yet whiles the oyle, in lampe may make a blaze,
Or candell in, the socket shewes a light,
On sparkling flame, the cleerest eies will gaze,
And comfort finde, thereby in darkest night:
I yeeld to time, that like a sit be cuts cleane,
All that doth grow, in spring or fall of leafe,
And wish in world, my treble were a meane,
That I might sing, to eares that are not deafe,
A note should sinke, as deepe in iugging brest,
As euer yet, in sea did ancker rest:
Songs are but like, as fancies giues them leaue,
Both well and ill, as sounds of trumpets are,
Though Syrens voice, the hearers doth deceaue,
Mine hath no charme, but open plaine and bare,
As I was borne, so speake I English still,
To lose my paines, and win the worlds good will,
No losse so much, as credit crackt with pen,
Nor gaine so great, as loue of honest men.
Fare you well.
| A Mvsicall Consort of Heauenly harmonie | |