Ayres and dialogues For One, Two, and Three Voyces. By Henry Lawes ... The First Booke |
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To my ever honour'd Friend & Father, Mr. HENRY
LAWES, on his Book of Ayres and Dialogues.
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To my ever honour'd Friend & Father, Mr. HENRY LAWES, on his Book of Ayres and Dialogues.
Father
of Musick and Musitians too,
And Father of the Muses, All's thy due:
For not a drop that flows from Helicon
But Ayr'd by thee grows streight into a Song.
So as when Light about the World was spread,
All kind of Colours, Black, White, Green, and Red,
Soon mixt with Substances, and grew to be
Plants, Grasse, and Flowrs, which All's but Harmony.
And Father of the Muses, All's thy due:
For not a drop that flows from Helicon
But Ayr'd by thee grows streight into a Song.
So as when Light about the World was spread,
All kind of Colours, Black, White, Green, and Red,
Soon mixt with Substances, and grew to be
Plants, Grasse, and Flowrs, which All's but Harmony.
Thou mak'st the Grave and Light together chime,
Both joyntly dance, yet keep their own true time;
The winning Dorick, that best loves the Harp;
The Phrygian, thats as sweet, though far more sharp;
The brisk Ionick, sober Lydian Mood,
Which every eare sucks in, and cryes, 'tis good:
Thou hitt'st them all; their Spirit, Tone, and Pause,
Have all conspir'd to meet and honour LAWES.
Both joyntly dance, yet keep their own true time;
The winning Dorick, that best loves the Harp;
The Phrygian, thats as sweet, though far more sharp;
The brisk Ionick, sober Lydian Mood,
Which every eare sucks in, and cryes, 'tis good:
Thou hitt'st them all; their Spirit, Tone, and Pause,
Have all conspir'd to meet and honour LAWES.
No pointing Comma, Colon, halfe so well
Renders the Breath of Sense; they cannot tell
The just Proportion how each word should go,
To rise and fall, run swiftly or march slow;
Thou shew'st 'tis Musick only must do this,
Which as thou handlest it can never miss;
All may be Sung or Read, which thou hast drest,
Both are the same, save that the Singing's best.
Renders the Breath of Sense; they cannot tell
The just Proportion how each word should go,
To rise and fall, run swiftly or march slow;
Thou shew'st 'tis Musick only must do this,
Which as thou handlest it can never miss;
All may be Sung or Read, which thou hast drest,
Both are the same, save that the Singing's best.
Thy Muse can make this sad, raise that to Life,
Inflaming one, smoothing down th'others Strife,
Meer Words, when measur'd best, are Words alone,
Till quickned by their nearest Friend a Tone:
And then, when Sense and perfect Concords meet,
Though th'Story bitter be, Tunes make it sweet:
Thy Ariadne's Grief's so fitly shown
As bring's us Pleasure from her saddest Groan.
Inflaming one, smoothing down th'others Strife,
Meer Words, when measur'd best, are Words alone,
Till quickned by their nearest Friend a Tone:
And then, when Sense and perfect Concords meet,
Though th'Story bitter be, Tunes make it sweet:
Thy Ariadne's Grief's so fitly shown
As bring's us Pleasure from her saddest Groan.
And all this is thine own, thy true-born Heir;
Nor stoln at home, nor Forrain far-fetcht Ware
Made good by Mountebanks, who loud must cry
Till some believe, and do as dearly buy;
Which when they've try'd, not better nor yet more
They find, than what does grow at their own door.
For when such Mountains swell with mighty Birth,
Wee find some poor small petty thing creep forth.
Nor stoln at home, nor Forrain far-fetcht Ware
Made good by Mountebanks, who loud must cry
Till some believe, and do as dearly buy;
Which when they've try'd, not better nor yet more
They find, than what does grow at their own door.
For when such Mountains swell with mighty Birth,
Wee find some poor small petty thing creep forth.
But I'm too short to speak thee, I've no Praise
To give, but what I gather from thy Bayes:
My narrow Hive's supply'd from thy full Flow'r,
Nor does thy Ocean Praise know Bank or Shoar:
Yet this I dare attest, that who shall look
And understand as well as read thy Book
Must say that here both Wit and Musick meet;
Like the great Giant's Riddle Strong and Sweet.
To give, but what I gather from thy Bayes:
My narrow Hive's supply'd from thy full Flow'r,
Nor does thy Ocean Praise know Bank or Shoar:
Yet this I dare attest, that who shall look
And understand as well as read thy Book
Must say that here both Wit and Musick meet;
Like the great Giant's Riddle Strong and Sweet.
JOHN COBB.
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