STRADAS Musical Duel;
IN LATINE, Much Enlarg'd in English: By the Addition of several Traverses between the HARPER and NIGHTINGALE;
TOGETHER WITH A more particular Account of the Issue of the CONTEST.
LONDON, Printed by I. W. for William Gilbert, at the Half Moon in St. Pauls Church-yard; 1671.
THE STATIONER To the Reader.
COnsulting mine own, and several Musical Friends ease and freedom from farther trouble in transcribing of Copies; and withall designing some small Advantage to my self by the Impression; I have thus adventur'd the Publication of this harmless Divertisement; no less exposing my self to the Censure of the AUTHOR, than his POEM to the Judgment of others, whether POETS, or MUSICIANS; and wish I were as well secur'd as to my hope of Pardon from him, as he against his fear of being condemn'd by them.
W. G.
Stradas Musical Duel, IN LATINE;
First imitated in English by Mr. Crashaw, then by Mr. Hinton; and now by a third Hand so enlarg'd, and the whole Frame of the Poem so alter'd, that little of Strada is preserv'd, save onely the Scene, and Issue of the Duel: All in a more familiar Style than that of Claudian imitated by Strada.
THe SUN the youthful Morn, and mid-ag'd Day
Had made; now stoopt in Evenings elder Ray;
When, close by Tiber, on a turf-pil'd Plat,
Under a well spread Oak's cool shadow, sat
The Owner, and (what's more) the Master too
Of a sweet Harp; a Harp that well might go
For Mistress of all Harps; his skilful Hand,
As well as that his Thoughts, could understand;
And, what she understood, as well expound
In the sweet Language of all Artful Sound.
To give long troubled thoughts some short repose,
This Instrument, this Time, this Place he chose.
The Instrument, such thoughts as he should treat'em
With grave to humor, with sprack Air to cheat'em:
The Time, if old Cares might their heat allay
By sympathy with the old-growing Day:
The Place, that Accents, utter'd on the Brim,
Might ore-thwart-down-up-stream long briskly swim,
A Wood-side, that what enter'd single sound,
Might thousand Eccho's multiply'd rebound.
Nor doth the Place defeat, but over-do
His thoughts; gives with those Helps a Rival too.
For as, this slack'ning, screwing that string higher,
He, to his humor, tun'd his plyant Lyre;
A Wood-bred Syren hearing (Syren she
As harmless, as the Sea-breed hurtful be;
(A Man but by the Ear takes, those trapan,
And by the Ear alone take the Whole Man.)
A Nightingale, the Queen of a sweet Quire,
Her Empire deems invaded by the Lyre.
Upon the Frontiers therefore bent to try
Her now, ne'er till now, doubtful Destinie;
The same Oak chose, her Ambush, and her Cage;
And so of this fam'd War the honor'd Stage.
Hence runs she ore the Gammut of her throat,
And throws the Harper back each tuning Note.
Prevents her Season to accept his Time,
And the proud Challenge of his Lyral Chime.
The startled Harper, thus alarm'd, forth sends
Oft well try'd Forces to his Fingers ends;
Instructs his Harp, at a strange skilful rate,
The Warlike Trumpet first to imitate;
And sound her own Charge: straight, amaz'd, he heard
The Mock to his Mock-Trumpet from the Bird.
The Mock-Marine from that her Mock invented,
But one Chord bears, with many a Fret indented.)
Next a swift Prelude up Forlorn he brings,
And lightly skirmishes o're all his strings.
The Bird too her light-harnest Notes forth sent,
And his bore back down to the Instrument.
But then of Musick's War begins the Dance,
When Suits of Lessons, as his Gross, advance;
Bases and Trebles, with their Flats and Sharps,
The Wood resounds as all her Trees were Harps:
Enough to make the Bird suspect, all made
To her Oak-Ambush, Counter-Ambuscade.
But unsurpriz'd she lab'ring all her throat,
(Her Foe her Judge) returns him all his Note;
The Wood more than all hers. He much admires
One single Bird Eccho'd to many Quires:
Much more one small throat fully answering
The Harp's profuse Variety of String;
And his of Touch; the Tuning, Cliff, Key, Mood,
The Time he chose, all by her Voice made Good.
The Lessons he, oft seen, with much Pains learn'd,
She, at first hearing, True, Clean, Sweet return'd.
VVithout Book Pavin-Grand Pas, Almain-Trot,
And the Coronto-Amble so soon got.
Knew the False-Gallop of the Saraband:
And could the Full-Speed of the Jigg command.
VVhat Lessons e're he play'd, sung to the Life.
Wisely then stints he this vain Part of Strife.
When ready-prest close Composition
No whit advanc'd his War; he thought upon
(His sweet Bird-Rival so to over-pow'r;
And sink her in as smart, as sweet a Show'r)
His free loose Voluntaries; in which kind
He play'd as soft as A'er, as swift as Wind.
As 'tis with some Extemporary Wits;
His sodain better were than studied Hits.
Their Vortices with swift hand stir'd, then he
Musick's loose Atomes, in sweet Harmony,
By Casual Concurse blends; far above theirs,
In all, but Posture, who the well-tun'd Sphears
Whirl in uncessant Round; leaving no place
For his Decorum, and well-order'd Grace
Of Pause and Rest; which Play as much commend
As good shade Beauty doth to Picture lend.
As Parts, and Limbs not more regarded be,
Than their due Distance, in just Symmetry.
Nay Parts of Musick these, though not of Sound;
The Chinks of this to fill up that were found;
And the discreeter Silence of his Strings,
As grateful, as their sweetest Prattleings.
Nor sodain Non-plus was his sodain Pause:
Judgment as quick as Phansie, here gave Laws;
As in his rash Play; which bold, not blind was;
Was rashly skilful, skilfuly was rash:
All like it self, and him. But though this Knack
Had Idoliz'd him, with no Common Pack
Of unskill'd Harpers; Yet he straight shall know,
He here mistook his Weapon, and his Foe:
Who hath him now at her wish'd Lock; for he
Using his looser Freedom, so doth she.
In Art, or Honor deems her self no more
Bound to Returns in Specie, as before.
But, on good Ground, from Air, and Accent varies
(They had not else to her been Voluntaries)
Giving him so to understand, that she
Invention had, as well as Memorie.
No Deaf-born Don was, who in better Tone
Could others Words repeat, than speak his own.
Yea, lets him see, but see full sore agast,
He here attacq't Musick's Enthusiast.
So her own Poet, so her own free Muse;
That, she her self encag'd, her Song is loose.
The little Saw on her part more than good:
She's born the Poet, and Muse of the Wood.
Other inspir'd ones Rapture wait from far;
And sometimes long; her Inspirations are
Her Nature; still within; as near at hand
As she her self; still ready at Command.
She, when she please, her self can, in a trice,
Ravish in Musick's sweetest Rhapsodies:
And pleaseth now to do so; first to fill
Her little Breast, the Store-house of her Bill,
With sweetest Breath; then send it up to that
So sweetly Chirping Natu'ral-Flagellat:
To be carv'd out in as sweet Tones of Voice:
And so 't straight was; in thousand Wild notes choice
Far above those of Art; as, if the same
For kind, Wild Fowl much sweeter is than Tame.
First long unwrinkled Threads of Voice she spun:
Shorter next drew, and finer many a one.
These finely twisted then so cuts and shreads,
All, but as Ends, appears of those fine Threads.
The first was Nature▪s Plain-Song, and her Grounds;
The next her Descant, last Divisions.
Yea, all these she so blends, as her small Breast
Had been of all siz'd Viols a full Chest:
And all together sounding in the Hands
Of (for all Parts) best skill'd Musicians.
For she as well as they, due Time, and Place
Knew for sweet Relish, and all other Grace.
In Dropping Notes her Voice would swifter glide,
Than boldest Hand on Strings could Posting Ride.
But above all, when on a Note she hit,
That highly pleas'd, she would so gargle it
In a long-winded Trill; as loath to part
With so much sweetness; Nature prompting Art.
Sweet Draughts so Drunkards on their Throat-brim treat:
Gluttons roul or'e their tongues Teat-bits of meat.
Here (the Birds Honor bad her not repeat)
The herein baffl'd Harper sounds Retreat.
But such Retreat he made, as Men devise
For longer Leaps to take a better Rise.
Such, as for Flight in other Wars they feign,
With more Advantage to fall on again.
So acts our Harper; whose Retirements be
But from loose Phansie, to fast Memorie.
When having some while run, and ransack'd o're
That Treasury of much well-order'd Store:
I ha't, he cry'd; Wood-Citharist, I come
With Off'ring either for thy Shrine, or Tomb;
As thou reply'st; of Cross-grain'd Brawls a Suit,
Which shall as crossly finger'd, strike thee Mute;
Or else my Harp; whose next great task must be
Proud Triumph, or her last, sad Obsequie.
With that, Cross Tunings to Cross Fingerings,
Cross Fing'rings fitting to his Cross tun'd Strings;
He Cross-grain'd Brawls performs at such a Rate,
His Harp seems but a sweeter Belin's-Gate.
The big budg Base grunts, grumbles, growls, and grones
'Gainst the shrill Treble all his surly Tones.
The slender-wasted Treble Chirping Chides,
And from her high-rais'd Perch gibing derides
The Churlish Base. These Jarrings he makes fall
In Tones of right Hermaphroditish Brawl,
'Twixt Man and Woman. Nor so ends the Brangle;
But Base with Base, Treble with Treble wrangle.
Two sullen Bases, 'twixt two Men as surly,
He makes to represent the Hurly-Burly:
Thick, growling Tones of foul-mouth'd words a Throng,
And lusty Thumps the sturdy Blows among.
Trebles alone then skilfully he moulds
To the right Accents of mere Women-Scolds:
Their Tunings, far from Ʋnisons, designs
For imbred Discords in the Female Minds.
When touch't, their jarring Accents aptly meant
The Quarrels of She-Tongues to represent.
Upon a softer touch submisser Jarrings,
Before they bark't, the Dogged Womens Snarlings.
When harder Strokes yet harsher Jars out-hammer;
This spake the Scolding womens lowder Clamor.
Many such Strings together when he'd strike;
Confus'd Brawls of more Scolds at once 'twas like.
Ill names when try'd, the Strings knowing him mean
VVould say, ye filthy Jade! ye dirty Quean!
Yea, Pinching of such jarring Strings he'd shew
Scratchings, as well as Scoldings, of that Crew.
Streight rudelyer handled put 'em to such Squeeks,
As would exactly render Female Shrieks.
Some short Pause made, to work agen he'd go:
Just as such Scolds, when out of breath, will do.
And then (his Master-piece) this Level-coil
Of threefold Scold he blends in one great Broil.
Yet so, as all together heard at once,
Are heard apart too in their several Tones.
The Man with Man, the Man with Woman holding
Their Brawl on foot; Woman with Woman scolding,
The last the lowd'st. All this of Vocal Strife
On one poor single Harp done to the Life.
The Harper's Hands, than the Harp's Strings no less
Striving, which all this Strife could best express.
His Thoughts too with his Hands contending; they
Best to instruct, and these best to obey.
He last of all Tenor, and Mean sends in,
To close the Ruptures of this Brawling Din.
The Tenor he too partially doth lean
Unto the Neighb'ring Base; but the just Mean,
As Equal in Respect, as Posture, tries
To bring the two Extremes to Comprimise.
Nor tries in vain; abating Neither's Noise,
He tempers both in due Harmonious Poise.
The well-pleas'd Strings awhile Congratulate
This late Return to their old Friendly State.
Who, whensoe'er this Mock-Brawl they begun,
Still fear'd a Real Feud e're they had done.
Like Jesting Quarrel mannag'd among Friends,
Till Jesting in an Earnest Quarrel ends.
The Harper too breaths now a freeer A'er:
And all, but 'twixt the Bird and him, is fair.
His Stormie Soul recalm'd, he quiet lies:
List'ning what his Antagonist replies,
Alas! his troubled thoughts were so transfer'd
To the as Restless now, as Restie Bird;
She fills her Bag; and blows, and blows; but brings
Forth Nothing, beyond softer Murmurings.
Sweet little Soul! she had accustom'd long
To pleasant Air, and well-tun'd peaceful Song.
But could not tune her prettie Pipe at all
To the Cross-Capers of such Jarring Brawl.
No less to Jarr the Mock at loss for Strings,
Than of the Real one for Humorings.
Her Hopes all ruin'd thus, beyond Repair;
Her tender Breast, with Thorns of black Despair,
She prick't, and pierc't through feels; not such, as she
Us'd to awake her to her Melodie:
But such, wherewith her Airie Soul opprest
Is Silenc'd in Eternal Pause, and Rest.
Affording not so Musical a Throat
For her own Requiem one Fun'eral Note.
Despairing then of rallying Force to stand
Such fresh Reserves of that all-pow'rful Hand:
Despairing with her Foe t' prevail to yield,
Or with her Honor so to quit the Field:
Her Soul resolv'd into that finer Ae'r,
And sweeter Number it's Ingredients were.
Her small Corps on the Harp drops breathless down:
That undue TROPHEE was no unmeet TOMB.
APOLLO's Priest here, with due Burial Rite,
Doth MELODY to MELODY commit.
The Harp now lays her Emulation by:
Nor Glories in the Pride of Victorie,
But in the Spoil; Access the Dead Corps brings,
Embalm'd in it's own Sweetness, to her Strings.
The Soul too, first retriv'd, anon retir'd
Into the Harp; which sweetly thus inspir'd
Needs no more FILL of other Vocal Tone:
It self is VOICE, and INSTRUMENT in One.
And so at Once both Rings the Fun'eral Peal,
And Sings the Requi'em of sweet PHILOMEL.
HAd the Author propounded CLAUDIAN's Lofty Stile for his Imitation in English, as STRADA did in Latine, he would have begun thus:
THe SUN Noon-Throne descending had laid by
His ROYAL Robes of highest MAJESTY;
And in a thinner Garb of milder Ray,
With headlong Course, run the last Stage of Day.
And so have proceeded accordingly: But designing onely innocent Drollery, chose a Verse nearer Burlesque or Lampoon, as fitter for that purpose.
FINIS.