Ayres and dialogues :: :: University of Virginia Library

Musick thou Soul of Verse, gently inspire
My untun'd Phansie with some sprightly Ayre,
'Tis fittest now that I thy ayd require
While I to sing thee and thy Lawes prepare:
For the high Raptures of a lofty strain
Charm equall with the Bowr's Aonian.

'Twere in me rudeness, not to blazon forth
(Father in Musick) thy deserved praise,
Who oft have been, to witness thy rare worth,
A ravish't hearer of thy skilfull Lay's.
Thy Lay's that wont to lend a soaring wing,
And to my tardy Muse fresh ardour bring.

While brightest Dames, the splendour of the Court,
Themselves a silent Musick to the Eye,
Would oft to hear thy solemn Ayres resort,
Making thereby a double Harmony:
'Tis hard to judge which adds the most delight,
To th'Eare thy Charms, or theirs unto the Sight.

But this is sure, had Strada's Nightingale
Heard the soft murmurs of thy Ayry Lute,
She doubting lest her own sweet voyce should fail
To hear thy sweeter Ayres, had quite been mute.
Such Vertue dwels in Harmony divine
(Admired LAWES) and above all in thine.

The Dorick Sage, and the mild Lydian,
The sad Laconick unto Wars exciting,
Th'Aeolian Grave, the Phrygian mournfull strain:
The smooth Jonick carelesly delighting,
There calmly meet, and chearfully agree,
Various themselves, to make one Symphony.

If we long since could boast thy purest vain,
More then old Greece the Rhodopsian Lyre,
Or Latian Bowres of late Marenzo's strain,
How much must our applause advance thee higher?
When thy yet more harmonious birth shall bring
To us new Joyes, new Pleasures to the Spring.

The Woods wild Songsters, wonder will surprize
Hearing the sweet Art of thy well tun'd Notes,
What new unwonted chime? 'tis that outvies
The Native sweetness of their liquid throats,
Which while in vain they strive to æmulate
Anothers Musick's Duell they'l create.

Whether pure Anthem's fill the sacred Quire,
Or Lady's Chambers' the Lute's trembling voice,
Or Rurall Song's the Country Swains admire,
Thy large Invention still affords us choice;
'Tis to thy Skill, that we indebted are,
What ever Musick hath of neat and rare.

To thee the choycest Witts of England owe
The Life of their fam'd Verse, that ne'r shall dye,
For thou hast made their rich conceits to flow
In streams more rich to lasting memory,
Such Musick needs must steal our souls away,
Where Voice and Verse do meet, where Love and Phansie play.

EDWARD PHILLIPS.