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This is the
prittiest motion:
Madam, th' alarums of a drumme
That cals your lord, set to your cries,
To mine are
sacred symphonies.
What, though 'tis said I have
a voice;
I know 'tis but that hollow noise
Which
(as it through my pipe doth speed)
Bitterns do carol
through a reed;
In the same key with monkeys jiggs,
Or dirges of proscribed piggs,
Or the soft Serenades
above
In calme of night, when cats make love.
Was ever such a consort seen!
Fourscore and fourteen
with forteen?
Yet sooner they'l agree, one paire,
Then we in our spring-winter aire;
They may imbrace,
sigh, kiss, the rest:
Our breath knows nought but
east and west.
Thus have I heard to childrens cries
The faire nurse still such lullabies,
That, well all
sayd (for what there lay),
The pleasure did the
sorrow pay.
Sure ther's another way to save
Your phansie, madam; that's to have
('Tis but a
petitioning kinde fate)
The organs sent to
Bilingsgate,
Where they to that soft murm'ring quire
Shall teach you all you can admire!
Or do but heare,
how love-bang Kate
In pantry darke for freage of
mate,
With edge of steele the square wood shapes,
And DIDO to it chaunts or scrapes.
The merry Phaeton
oth' carre
You'l vow makes a melodious jarre;
Sweeter and sweeter whisleth He
To un-anointed
axel-tree;
Such swift notes he and 's wheels do run;
For me, I yeeld him Phaebus son.
Say, faire Comandres,
can it be
You should ordaine a mutinie?
For where
I howle, all accents fall,
As kings harangues, to one
and all.
Ulisses art is now withstood:
You
ravish both with sweet and good;
Saint Syren, sing,
for I dare heare,
But when I ope', oh, stop your eare.
Far lesse be't aemulation
To passe me, or in
trill or tone,
Like the thin throat of Philomel,
And the smart lute who should excell,
As if her soft
cords should begin,
And strive for sweetnes with the
pin.
Yet can I musick too; but such
As is
beyond all voice or touch;
My minde can in faire
order chime,
Whilst my true heart still beats the
time;
My soule['s] so full of harmonie,
That it
with all parts can agree;
If you winde up to the
highest fret,
It shall descend an eight from it,
And when you shall vouchsafe to fall,
Sixteene above
you it shall call,
And yet, so dis-assenting one,
They both shall meet in unison.
Come then, bright
cherubin, begin!
My loudest musick is within.
Take
all notes with your skillfull eyes;
Hearke, if mine
do not sympathise!
Sound all my thoughts, and see
exprest
The tablature of my large brest;
Then
you'l admit, that I too can
Musick above dead sounds
of man;
Such as alone doth blesse the spheres,
Not
to be reacht with humane eares.
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