Ayres and dialogues For One, Two, and Three Voyces. By Henry Lawes ... The First Booke |
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To his Honour'd F. Mr. HENRY LAWES,
on his Ayres and Dialogues.
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 | Ayres and dialogues |  |
To his Honour'd F. Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Ayres and Dialogues.
Those
happy few who apprehend thy flight,
Ever above the Cloud, yet still in sight,
Cannot by all their Numbers and Addresse
Swell or advance thy praises, but confesse.
For thou art fix'd beyond the Power of Fate,
Since nothing that is Mortal can Create.
And is it possible that thou should'st dye
Who can'st bestow such Immortality?
Ever above the Cloud, yet still in sight,
Cannot by all their Numbers and Addresse
Swell or advance thy praises, but confesse.
For thou art fix'd beyond the Power of Fate,
Since nothing that is Mortal can Create.
And is it possible that thou should'st dye
Who can'st bestow such Immortality?
I have not sought the Rules by which yee try
When a Chord's broke, or holds in Harmony;
But I am sure Thou hast a Soul within
As if created for a Cherubin;
Brim full of Candour and wise Innocence,
And is not Musick a Resultance thence?
For sure the blunt-bill'd Swan's first fame to sing
Sprung from the motion of her spotless Wing.
When a Chord's broke, or holds in Harmony;
But I am sure Thou hast a Soul within
As if created for a Cherubin;
Brim full of Candour and wise Innocence,
And is not Musick a Resultance thence?
For sure the blunt-bill'd Swan's first fame to sing
Sprung from the motion of her spotless Wing.
But sole Integrity winns not the Cause,
For then each honest man would be a LAWES:
Thou hast deep Iudgement, Phansie, and high Sence,
Old and new VVit, steady Experience;
A Soul unbrib'd by any thing but Fame,
Grasping to get nought but a good great Name.
Hence all thy Ayres flow pure and unconfin'd,
Blown by no Mercenary Lapland Wind,
No stoln or plunder'd Phansies, but born free,
And so transmitted to Posteritie,
VVhich never shall their well-grown Honor blast,
Since they have Thy, that's the best, Iudgement past.
For then each honest man would be a LAWES:
Thou hast deep Iudgement, Phansie, and high Sence,
Old and new VVit, steady Experience;
A Soul unbrib'd by any thing but Fame,
Grasping to get nought but a good great Name.
Hence all thy Ayres flow pure and unconfin'd,
Blown by no Mercenary Lapland Wind,
No stoln or plunder'd Phansies, but born free,
And so transmitted to Posteritie,
VVhich never shall their well-grown Honor blast,
Since they have Thy, that's the best, Iudgement past.
Yet Some, who forc'd t'admire Thee, must repine
That all Theirs are out-done by thy Each Line;
The Sence so humour'd, and those Humours hit,
VVill call them acts of Fortune, not of Wit;
Hoping their want of Skill may be thy Brand
'Cause they have not the Luck to Understand;
Cry up the Words to cry Thee down, and sweare
Thou sett'st more Sence then they can meet elsewhere,
Concluding could themselves such Verses show
They could produce such Compositions too.
That all Theirs are out-done by thy Each Line;
The Sence so humour'd, and those Humours hit,
VVill call them acts of Fortune, not of Wit;
Hoping their want of Skill may be thy Brand
'Cause they have not the Luck to Understand;
Cry up the Words to cry Thee down, and sweare
Thou sett'st more Sence then they can meet elsewhere,
Concluding could themselves such Verses show
They could produce such Compositions too.
But is't thy fault if the great Witts whole Quire
Before all O hers still prefer Thy Lyre?
They tasted All, and Thine among the rest,
But then return'd to Thee, 'cause Best was Best.
Bid such attach Thy Old Anacreon's Greek,
Where the least Accent will cost Them a Week,
Six Months a Verse, and that Verse tun'd and scann'd
(Though short) twelve Years, an Age to Understand:
But thy Lute, like th'last Trump, hath rais'd His Head,
Who, er'e the Græcian Empire born, was dead.
Before all O hers still prefer Thy Lyre?
They tasted All, and Thine among the rest,
But then return'd to Thee, 'cause Best was Best.
Bid such attach Thy Old Anacreon's Greek,
Where the least Accent will cost Them a Week,
Six Months a Verse, and that Verse tun'd and scann'd
(Though short) twelve Years, an Age to Understand:
But thy Lute, like th'last Trump, hath rais'd His Head,
Who, er'e the Græcian Empire born, was dead.
Then let all Poetts bring all Verse, which They
May on thy Desk as on an Altar lay,
Where kindled by that Touch thy Hand hath given,
'Twill climb (whence Musick first came down) to Heaven.
May on thy Desk as on an Altar lay,
Where kindled by that Touch thy Hand hath given,
'Twill climb (whence Musick first came down) to Heaven.
FRANCIS FINCH, Esquire.
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