Musick's Duell

Now Westward Sol had spent the richest beamsOf Noon's high glory, when hard by the streamsOf Tiber, on the sceane of a greene plat,Vnder protection of an oake, there sateA sweet Lute's-master; in whose gentle airesHe lost the daye's heat, and his owne hot cares.Close in the covert of the leaves there stoodA Nightingale, come from the neighbouring wood:(The sweet inhabitant of each glad tree,Their Muse, their Syren--harmlesse Syren she!)There stood she listning, and did entertaineThe musick's soft report, and mold the sameIn her owne murmures, that what ever moodHis curious fingers lent, her voyce made good:The man perceiv'd his rivall, and her art;Dispos'd to give the light-foot lady sport,Awakes his lute, and 'gainst the fight to comeInformes it in a sweet praeludiumOf closer straines, and ere the warre begin,He lightly skirmishes on every string,Charg'd with a flying touch: and streightway sheCarves out her dainty voyce as readily,Into a thousand sweet distinguish'd tones,And reckons up in soft divisions,Quicke volumes of wild notes; to let him knowBy that shrill taste, she could do something too.His nimble hands' instinct then taught each stringA capring cheerefullnesse; and made them singTo their owne dance; now negligently rashHe throwes his arme, and with a long drawne dashBlends all together; then distinctly trippsFrom this to that; then quicke returning skippsAnd snatches this again, and pauses there.Shee measures every measure, every whereMeets art with art; sometimes as if in doubtNot perfect yet, and fearing to be out,Trayles her plaine ditty in one long-spun note,Through the sleeke passage of her open throat,A cleare unwrinckled song; then doth shee point itWith tender accents, and severely joynt itBy short diminutives, that being rear'dIn controverting warbles evenly shar'd,With her sweet selfe shee wrangles. Hee amazedThat from so small a channell should be rais'dThe torrent of a voyce, whose melodyCould melt into such sweet variety,Straines higher yet; that tickled with rare artThe tatling strings (each breathing in his part)Most kindly doe fall out; the grumbling baseIn surly groans disdaines the treble's grace;The high-perch't treble chirps at this, and chides,Vntill his finger (Moderatour) hidesAnd closes the sweet quarrell, rowsing all,Hoarce, shrill at once; as when the trumpets callHot Mars to th' harvest of Death's field, and wooMen's hearts into their hands: this lesson tooShee gives him back, her supple brest thrills outSharpe aires, and staggers in a warbling doubtOf dallying sweetnesse, hovers o're her skill,And folds in wav'd notes with a trembling billThe plyant series of her slippery song;Then starts shee suddenly into a throngOf short, thicke sobs, whose thundring volleyes floatAnd roule themselves over her lubrick throatIn panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast,That ever-bubling spring; the sugred nestOf her delicious soule, that there does lyeBathing in streames of liquid melodie;Musick's best seed-plot, whence in ripen'd airesA golden-headed harvest fairely rearesHis honey-dropping tops, plow'd by her breath,Which there reciprocally labourethIn that sweet soyle; it seemes a holy quireFounded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre,Whose silver-roofe rings with the sprightly notesOf sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throatsIn creame of morning Helicon, and thenPreferre soft-anthems to the eares of men,To woo them from their beds, still murmuringThat men can sleepe while they their mattens sing:(Most divine service) whose so early lay,Prevents the eye-lidds of the blushing Day!There you might heare her kindle her soft voyce,In the close murmur of a sparkling noyse,And lay the ground-worke of her hopefull song,Still keeping in the forward streame, so long,Till a sweet whirle-wind (striving to get out)Heaves her soft bosome, wanders round about,And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast,Till the fledg'd notes at length forsake their nest,Fluttering in wanton shoales, and to the skyWing'd with their owne wild ecchos, pratling fly.Shee opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tideOf streaming sweetnesse, which in state doth rideOn the wav'd backe of every swelling straine,Rising and falling in a pompous traine.And while she thus discharges a shrill pealeOf flashing aires; she qualifies their zealeWith the coole epode of a graver noat,Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throatWould reach the brazen voyce of War's hoarce bird;Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'dInto loose extasies, that she is plac'tAbove her selfe, Musick's Enthusiast.Shame now and anger mixt a double staineIn the Musitian's face; yet once againe(Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my luteAbove her mocke, or be for ever mute;Or tune a song of victory to me,Or to thy selfe, sing thine own obsequie:So said, his hands sprightly as fire, he flingsAnd with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings.The sweet-lip't sisters, musically frighted,Singing their feares, are fearefully delighted,Trembling as when Appolo's golden hairesAre fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayresOf his own breath: which marryed to his lyreDoth tune the spheares, and make Heaven's selfe looke higher.From this to that, from that to this he flyes.Feeles Musick's pulse in all her arteryes;Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,His fingers struggle with the vocall threads.Following those little rills, he sinkes intoA sea of Helicon; his hand does goeThose pathes of sweetnesse which with nectar drop,Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup.The humourous strings expound his learned touch,By various glosses; now they seeme to grutch,And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingleIn shrill-tongu'd accents: striving to be single.Every smooth turne, every delicious stroakeGives life to some new grace; thus doth h' invokeSweetnesse by all her names; thus, bravely thus(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,Heav'd on the surges of swolne rapsodyes,Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curle the aireWith flash of high-borne fancyes: here and thereDancing in lofty measures, and anonCreeps on the soft touch of a tender tone;Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild airesRuns to and fro, complaining his sweet cares,Because those pretious mysteryes that dwellIn Musick's ravish't soule, he dares not tell,But whisper to the world: thus doe they varyEach string his note, as if they meant to carryTheir Master's blest soule (snatcht out at his earesBy a strong extasy) through all the sphearesOf Musick's heaven; and seat it there on highIn th' empyraeum of pure harmony.At length (after so long, so loud a strifeOf all the strings, still breathing the best lifeOf blest variety, attending onHis fingers fairest revolutionIn many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)A full-mouth'd diapason swallowes all.This done, he lists what she would say to this,And she, (although her breath's late exerciseHad dealt too roughly with her tender throate,)Yet summons all her sweet powers for a noate.Alas! in vaine! for while (sweet soule!) she tryesTo measure all those wild diversitiesOf chatt'ring strings, by the small size of onePoore simple voyce, rais'd in a naturall tone;She failes, and failing grieves, and grieving dyes.She dyes: and leaves her life the Victor's prise,Falling upon his lute: O, fit to have(That liv'd so sweetly) dead, so sweet a grave!