 | The second book of ayres, and dialogues |  |
To the great Master of his Art my honoured F. Mr. Henry Lawes on his Book of Ayres.
All
you that have, or ought to have, no Ears;
Who (onely Snake or Goose) hiss at the Spheares;
Souls that consist of Seavenths and Seconds, come
(If ye can read) and be not deaf, but dumb.
Behold a Man to tune an Angel by!
Whose Phansy climbes higher than Poëtry!
One that can raise dead Words, and strike forth Wit
From Lines as low as ever W--- writ:
Who dwells not in lean Sounds, from Breath or Wyre,
(The Chamleting or Crisping of the Ayer,
The Art of Birds;) but Worded Sense pursues,
Phansies which noble Mankind ought to chuse:
Knowes the right Pulse of Wit, when it beats high,
Feel's when it hit's, then calls in Harmony,
Marryes them both, as if he would recall
How God convers'd with Man before the Fall:
Perfume's the Words, the Rise, the Turn, the Pawse,
Strikes till he touch the Heart; Then, then 'tis Lawes.
Who (onely Snake or Goose) hiss at the Spheares;
Souls that consist of Seavenths and Seconds, come
(If ye can read) and be not deaf, but dumb.
Behold a Man to tune an Angel by!
Whose Phansy climbes higher than Poëtry!
One that can raise dead Words, and strike forth Wit
From Lines as low as ever W--- writ:
Who dwells not in lean Sounds, from Breath or Wyre,
(The Chamleting or Crisping of the Ayer,
The Art of Birds;) but Worded Sense pursues,
Phansies which noble Mankind ought to chuse:
Knowes the right Pulse of Wit, when it beats high,
Feel's when it hit's, then calls in Harmony,
Marryes them both, as if he would recall
How God convers'd with Man before the Fall:
Perfume's the Words, the Rise, the Turn, the Pawse,
Strikes till he touch the Heart; Then, then 'tis Lawes.
For Thou (Harmonious Soul, in Thousand Songs
Taught'st us that Musick's more than Chords and Lungs:
Who hast liv'd famous forty Summers, where
What the best Wits have writ or spoke didst hear,
And prov'd there is for Verse a Happiness,
If it be roab'd in thy Chromatick Dress.
Nor yet art tyr'd, still, still thy Phansy pours
Faster than that great Glutton Time devours.
So vast is that Exchequer of thy Brain,
Out spends all others, yet does most retain.
Thou scorn'st their foraign Aid, who must (for fear
Of Platoisms) with Lisping mend the Air;
Who plunder Thine, new Presents for their Prince,
Which thou compos'dst full eighteen Harvests since.
They'll vote thee cheap (now they can steal no more)
And rob thy Fame, who stole thy Ayres before;
For savage Felons never think they can
Blot out the Theft till they have slain the Man.
Taught'st us that Musick's more than Chords and Lungs:
Who hast liv'd famous forty Summers, where
What the best Wits have writ or spoke didst hear,
And prov'd there is for Verse a Happiness,
If it be roab'd in thy Chromatick Dress.
Nor yet art tyr'd, still, still thy Phansy pours
Faster than that great Glutton Time devours.
So vast is that Exchequer of thy Brain,
Out spends all others, yet does most retain.
Thou scorn'st their foraign Aid, who must (for fear
Of Platoisms) with Lisping mend the Air;
Who plunder Thine, new Presents for their Prince,
Which thou compos'dst full eighteen Harvests since.
They'll vote thee cheap (now they can steal no more)
And rob thy Fame, who stole thy Ayres before;
For savage Felons never think they can
Blot out the Theft till they have slain the Man.
But these secure thy Right by all their Wrongs,
Proving thou mak'st Musicians, They but Songs:
They are thy Eccho: But when such compose,
How meagre, how confessingly it goes!
'Tis seen quite through, as a thin Comedy
Betrays at First what the Last Scene will be.
Or else such scolding Notes the Sense confute,
Notes fitter for a Tumbrell than a Lute;
For though th'are twisted on Harmonious Chords,
There's grinning Discord 'twixt the Ayre and Words.
Thy melting Tones and Words so streaming run
As Light and Heat flow joyntly from the Sun.
No justling Noyse invades thy Symphony,
So spann'd, that all is link'd, yet all is free.
As on flat Maps a learn'd Geographer
Plant's here America, and Africk there,
Here Europe stands, there Asia is hurl'd,
Not missing one hair's breadth all the Great World:
So Thou on thy Composing-Card's broad face
Sett'st Tenor, Counter-tenor, Treble, Base,
With such a Masters han'd, such Symmetry,
Thou prov'st the World consists of Harmony.
Thou shew'st how high that Greece of Greece was grown,
Which Rome's Dictator damn'd a Fisher Town,
Reforming all to Cinders, whose best Notes
Taught but two Arts, Speeching and Cutting Throats;
When Sylla made learn'd Athens one red Blaze,
Whose Fire and Blood met in his copper face.
But thou reviv'st its Ashes, and dost show
How Greeks rejoyc'd two thousand years ago.
Not all the swelling Vowel-men with all
Their Liquids, Mutes, their Dental, Labial,
Lingual, and Guttural, new Genal too,
Can half of that thy Sharps and Flats can do.
Thou shoot'st into our Souls, thy Numbers tell
The vastness of that Gulph 'twixt Heaven and Hell,
(When pow'rfull Rapture in thy Anthem floats)
'Tis Heaven hath Voyces, Hell hath clashing Votes.
This made great Socrates his Gamut conn
(As Cato Greek) when old and wisest grown,
As if his reaching Head, e're Martyr crown'd,
By Jacob's staff had Jacob's ladder found,
Where Angels moving to and from Heav'ns Throne,
Taught the great Scale of Musick up and down.
Proving thou mak'st Musicians, They but Songs:
They are thy Eccho: But when such compose,
How meagre, how confessingly it goes!
'Tis seen quite through, as a thin Comedy
Betrays at First what the Last Scene will be.
Or else such scolding Notes the Sense confute,
Notes fitter for a Tumbrell than a Lute;
For though th'are twisted on Harmonious Chords,
There's grinning Discord 'twixt the Ayre and Words.
Thy melting Tones and Words so streaming run
As Light and Heat flow joyntly from the Sun.
No justling Noyse invades thy Symphony,
So spann'd, that all is link'd, yet all is free.
As on flat Maps a learn'd Geographer
Plant's here America, and Africk there,
Here Europe stands, there Asia is hurl'd,
Not missing one hair's breadth all the Great World:
So Thou on thy Composing-Card's broad face
Sett'st Tenor, Counter-tenor, Treble, Base,
With such a Masters han'd, such Symmetry,
Thou prov'st the World consists of Harmony.
Thou shew'st how high that Greece of Greece was grown,
Which Rome's Dictator damn'd a Fisher Town,
Reforming all to Cinders, whose best Notes
Taught but two Arts, Speeching and Cutting Throats;
When Sylla made learn'd Athens one red Blaze,
Whose Fire and Blood met in his copper face.
But thou reviv'st its Ashes, and dost show
How Greeks rejoyc'd two thousand years ago.
Not all the swelling Vowel-men with all
Their Liquids, Mutes, their Dental, Labial,
Lingual, and Guttural, new Genal too,
Can half of that thy Sharps and Flats can do.
Thou shoot'st into our Souls, thy Numbers tell
The vastness of that Gulph 'twixt Heaven and Hell,
(When pow'rfull Rapture in thy Anthem floats)
'Tis Heaven hath Voyces, Hell hath clashing Votes.
This made great Socrates his Gamut conn
(As Cato Greek) when old and wisest grown,
As if his reaching Head, e're Martyr crown'd,
By Jacob's staff had Jacob's ladder found,
Where Angels moving to and from Heav'ns Throne,
Taught the great Scale of Musick up and down.
Then tell me (Bedlems) why th'audacious Drum
Shook down the Choir, and strook the Organ dumb,
Till the red Lattise lift's those Bellows up
To kindle Healths, and celebrate each Cup;
Where Smoke and Minstrelsy are dealt about
To help their groats worth of Church Musick out.
How would the Druid start, and backward fling,
Though none but He that could not read did sing,
When Rome thought Britain so despis'd a Clod,
No Gentleman but scorn'd to be its
God!
Shook down the Choir, and strook the Organ dumb,
Till the red Lattise lift's those Bellows up
To kindle Healths, and celebrate each Cup;
Where Smoke and Minstrelsy are dealt about
To help their groats worth of Church Musick out.
How would the Druid start, and backward fling,
Though none but He that could not read did sing,
When Rome thought Britain so despis'd a Clod,
No Gentleman but scorn'd to be its
Parum est quòd Templum in Britannia habet Claudius, quòd hunc Barbari colunt, & ut Deum orant. Sen.: {Αποκολυτυνθως}
Thou art unstain'd, no Brocage makes thine hit,
Thou stick'st as close to Virtue as to Wit.
Thy Art and Life are Unison'd, and do
Conspire to call Thee Saint and Angel too.
Thou hast strung David's Harp, as might have rouz'd
A Legion out of Saul, though twelve years hous'd;
Putt'st it as much in tune (if Man can do't)
As Rous or Robert Wisdome put it out:
And mad'st thy glorious Brother tune it too,
(Whose Coffin is each Chest of Viols now:)
O how our Passions interfere, to see
All lost in Him, yet all preserv'd in Thee!
As Jove's two Eagles flew from East and West,
Cross'd the whole Globe, yet scorn'd to stoop or rest
Till met at floating Delos: So you Two
(Strong high wing'd Souls) with different Phansies flew
Through the whole Sphear of Musick, till at last
In this our floating Isle ye set all fast.
Thy Brother then to Heaven's Great Consort fled,
That Ayre (as Light and Power) might have one Head.
Thus old Parnassus was your Type, and did
Close its two tops for thy one Pyramid.
Thou stick'st as close to Virtue as to Wit.
Thy Art and Life are Unison'd, and do
Conspire to call Thee Saint and Angel too.
Thou hast strung David's Harp, as might have rouz'd
A Legion out of Saul, though twelve years hous'd;
Putt'st it as much in tune (if Man can do't)
As Rous or Robert Wisdome put it out:
And mad'st thy glorious Brother tune it too,
(Whose Coffin is each Chest of Viols now:)
O how our Passions interfere, to see
All lost in Him, yet all preserv'd in Thee!
As Jove's two Eagles flew from East and West,
Cross'd the whole Globe, yet scorn'd to stoop or rest
Till met at floating Delos: So you Two
(Strong high wing'd Souls) with different Phansies flew
Through the whole Sphear of Musick, till at last
In this our floating Isle ye set all fast.
Thy Brother then to Heaven's Great Consort fled,
That Ayre (as Light and Power) might have one Head.
Thus old Parnassus was your Type, and did
Close its two tops for thy one Pyramid.
Stand then, Great Master, shine as long, as far
As Orpheus, whose Harp is now a Star.
Thy Works (the Balsome of the Brain) request
The Crown of Time, as oldest Lutes sound best:
And twenty Ages hence, when Musick's driven
(Like Kings and Bishops) banish'd home to Heaven;
If Mortals then for Wit and Phansy look,
Others may spell, and read, Thou mad'st the Book.
As Orpheus, whose Harp is now a Star.
Thy Works (the Balsome of the Brain) request
The Crown of Time, as oldest Lutes sound best:
And twenty Ages hence, when Musick's driven
(Like Kings and Bishops) banish'd home to Heaven;
If Mortals then for Wit and Phansy look,
Others may spell, and read, Thou mad'st the Book.
Iohn Berkenhead.
| The second book of ayres, and dialogues | |