 | The second book of ayres, and dialogues |  |
To her most honoured Master, Mr. Henry Lavves, On his Second Book of Ayres.
To
stop my Muse, Censure objects
That I by this forget my Sex
But Silence (even in me) were rude
When it implies Ingratitude:
Shall I from Lavves his Magazin
Harmonious Raptures steal unseen?
If I have Art, it is from Thee:
Others do teach, but (to be free)
Experience told me thou art best,
For I have learn'd of all the rest
That Fame call's Masters, and have cause
To sacrifice to none but Lavves.
'Twere weakness to suppose my breath
Could thy rich Ayres preserve from death,
That Power is thine alone, the Press
Make's happy our unhappiness.
Thy Works in Print we need not fear
Will feel Mortality; the Ear
Judicious, ravisht, will admire
Thy Chords when thou art in Heav'ns Quire.
That I by this forget my Sex
But Silence (even in me) were rude
When it implies Ingratitude:
Shall I from Lavves his Magazin
Harmonious Raptures steal unseen?
If I have Art, it is from Thee:
Others do teach, but (to be free)
Experience told me thou art best,
For I have learn'd of all the rest
That Fame call's Masters, and have cause
To sacrifice to none but Lavves.
'Twere weakness to suppose my breath
Could thy rich Ayres preserve from death,
That Power is thine alone, the Press
Make's happy our unhappiness.
Thy Works in Print we need not fear
Will feel Mortality; the Ear
Judicious, ravisht, will admire
Thy Chords when thou art in Heav'ns Quire.
He that want's Phansie need's no further look,
Ther's store to treasure any in this Book:
To speak thy Noble skill is such a Theam
Would thaw a frozen Wit into a stream.
Thy spotless Heart the cozen'd World may see
Hath plotted nought these times but Harmony;
Discord ne'r reach't thy Breast, the God of Love
Has kept thy soul in tune like those above.
And now thou marchest forth, when Wars are fled,
To metamorphose Griefe and Hearts of Lead;
To mould our Chaos, and retune our Sphear,
To rank and file our Hearts as once they were:
For Musick these Felicities hath found;
Then say how much we all to Lavves are bound,
That here present's us with such Gifts as these,
You'l think they were (not his) dropt from the skies;
But all's his own: let Criticks search and scan,
They'l find this Book the Mind's Physitian.
Ther's store to treasure any in this Book:
To speak thy Noble skill is such a Theam
Would thaw a frozen Wit into a stream.
Thy spotless Heart the cozen'd World may see
Hath plotted nought these times but Harmony;
Discord ne'r reach't thy Breast, the God of Love
Has kept thy soul in tune like those above.
And now thou marchest forth, when Wars are fled,
To metamorphose Griefe and Hearts of Lead;
To mould our Chaos, and retune our Sphear,
To rank and file our Hearts as once they were:
For Musick these Felicities hath found;
Then say how much we all to Lavves are bound,
That here present's us with such Gifts as these,
You'l think they were (not his) dropt from the skies;
But all's his own: let Criticks search and scan,
They'l find this Book the Mind's Physitian.
Mary Knight.
| The second book of ayres, and dialogues | |