Amanda :: :: University of Virginia Library

Sir , I have seen your scip-jack fingers flie,
As if their motion taugh't Ubiquitie:
I've seen the trembling Cat'lin's smart and brisk
Start from the frets, dance, leap, and nimbly frisk
In palsie capers, pratling (a most sweet
Language of Notes) Curranto's as they meet:
I've heard each string speak in so short a space
As if all spoke at once; with stately grace
The surley tenour grumble at your touch,
And th' ticklish-maiden treble laugh as much,
Which (if your bowe-hand whip it wantonly,)
Most pertly chirps and jabbers merrily;
Like frolick Nightingals, whose narrow throats
Such Musick in and out, and gargle notes;

Each strain makes smooth, and curles the air agen,
Like currents suck't by narrow whirlepits in;
Sometimes they murmur like the shallow springs,
Whose hastie streams forc't into Crystal rings,
And check't by pebbles, pretty Musick make
In kisses and such language as they speak,
'Tis soft and easie, Heaven can't out-do't,
That under Fairie-ground is nothing to't:
Who e're that earthly mortal Cherub be,
Whose well-tun'd soul delights in melodie:
He ventures hard, if for an houre he dares
To your surprizing straines apply his eares,
We finde such Magick in your Harmony,
As if to hear you were to hear and die.

Were you a Batchelour, and bold to trie
Fortunes, what Lady's she, though ne're so high
And rich by birth, should see the tickling sport
Your finger makes, and would not have you for't;
Beyond those Saints who speak ex tempore,
Your well-spoke viol scornes tautologie;
And I in truth had rather hear you teach
O'th' Lyra, then the rarest tub-man preach:
In's holy speeches he may strike my eares
With more of Heav'n; you with more o'th' spheres,

I've heard your base mumble and mutter too,
Made angry with your cholerick hand, while you
With hastie jirks to vex and anger't more
Correct its stubbornnesse and lash it o're:
I've heard you pawse, and dwell upon an aire,
(Then make't i'th' end (as loft to part it were)

Languish and melt away so leasurely,)
As if 'twere pity that its Eccho die;
Then snatch up notes, as if your viol broke,
And in the breaking every splinter spoke:
I've seen your active hands vault to and fro,
This to give grace, that to command your bowe;
As if your fingers and your instrument
By conspiration made you eminent.

We have good Musick and Musicians here,
If not the best, as good as any where:
A brave old Irish Harper, and you know
English or French way few or none out-go
Our Lutanists; the Lusemores too I think
For Organists, the Sack-buts breath may stink,
And yet old Brownes be sweet, o'th' Violin
Saunders plays well, where Magge or Mel han't been.
Then on his Cornet brave thanksgiving Mun,
Playes on Rings Chappel after Sermon's done:
At those loud blasts, though he's out-gone by none,
Yet Cambridge glories in your self alone:
No more but thus, he that heares only you,
Heares Lillie play, and Doctor Coleman too.

You in the swiftnesse of your hand excel
All others, my Amanda sings as well,
No Musick like to hers; I wish in troth,
That we with her might play in Consort both;
Might I my self, and you my friend prefer,
You with her voice should play, and I with her.