Ford, John · published 1629 · first performed or written 1628 [licensed for stage, Nov 24] (Annals) tragicomedy · King's Men · Globe unassigned nearest T9 Theatre talk: prologues, poets and playe · 467 words
Marked words are the most distinguishing words of the nearest topic T9: play, stage, poet, prologue, author, wit, plays, muse, scene, players.
I cannot yet conceive, what you infer By Art and Nature. I shall soon resolve ye. A sound of music touched mine ears, or rather Indeed entranced my soul: as I stole nearer, Invited by the melody, I saw This Youth, this fair-faced Youth, upon his Lute With strains of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming (as it seemed) so bold a challenge To the clear Quiristers of the Woods, the Birds, That as they flocked about him, all stood silent, Wondering at what they heard. I wondered too. And so do I, good,— on. A Nightingale. Nature's best skilled Musician undertakes The challenge, and for every several strain The well-shaped Youth could touch, she sung her down; He could not run Division with more Art Upon his quaking Instrument, than she, The Nightingale did with her various notes Reply too, for a voice, and for a sound, Amethus, 'tis much easier to believe That such they were, then hope to hear again. How did the rival's part? You term them rightly, For they were Rivals, and their Mistress harmony. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird Whom Art had never taught Cliffs, Moods, or Notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many hours to perfect practice: To end the controversy, in a rapture, Upon his Instrument he plays so swiftly, So many voluntaries, and so quick, That there was curiosity and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of differing method Meeting in one full Centre of delight. Now for the bird. The bird ordained to be Music's first Martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds: which, when her warbling throat Failed in, for grief, down dropped she on his Lute, And broke her heart; it was the quaintest sadness, To see the Conqueror upon her Hearse, To weep a funeral Elegy of tears, That trust me (my Amethus) I could chide Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me A fellow-mourner with him. Amet. I believe thee. He looks upon the trophies of his Art, Then sighed, then wiped his eyes, then sighed, and cried, Alas poor creature: I will soon revenge This cruelty upon the Author of it; Henceforth this Lute guilty of innocent blood, Shall never more betray a harmless peace To an untimely end: and in that sorrow, As he was pashing it against a tree, I suddenly stepped in. Thou hast discoursed A truth of mirth and pity. I reprieved Th'intended execution with entreaties, And interruption: but (my Princely friend) It was not strange, the music of his hand Did overmatch birds, when his voice and beauty, Youth, carriage and discretion, must, from men Endued with reason, ravish admiration: From me they did. But is this miracle Not to be seen?
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Original spelling (EEBO-TCP, unregularized)
I cannot yet conceiue, what you inferre By Art and Nature. I shall soone resolue yee. A sound of musicke toucht mine eares, or rather Indeed intranc'd my soule: as I stole neerer, Inuited by the melody, I saw This Youth, this faire-fac'd Youth, vpon his Lute With straines of strange variety and harmony, Proclaiming (as it seem'd) so bold a challenge To the cleare Quiristers of the Woods, the Birds, That as they flockt about him, all stood silent, Wondring at what they heard. I wondred too. And so doe I, good,—on. A Nightingale. Natures best skill'd Musicion vndertakes The challenge, and for euery seuerall straine The wel-shapt Youth could touch, she sung her down; He coo'd not run Duision with more Art Vpon his quaking Instrument, then she, The Nightingale did with her various notes Reply too, for a voyce, and for a sound, Amethus, tis much easier to beleeue That such they were, then hope to heare againe. How did the Riuals part? You terme them rightly, For they were Riuals, and their Mistris harmony. Some time thus spent, the young man grew at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird Whom Art had neuer taught Cliffs, Moods, or Notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Had busied many houres to perfit practise: To end the controuersie, in a rapture, Vpon his Instrument he playes so swiftly, So many voluntaries, and so quicke, That there was curiositie and cunning, Concord in discord, lines of diffring method Meeting in one full Center of delight. Now for the bird. The bird ordain'd to be Musicks first Martyr, stroue to imitate These seuerall sounds: which, when her warbling throat Fail'd in, for griefe, downe dropt she on his Lute, And brake her heart; it was the quaintest sadnesse, To see the Conquerour vpon her Hearse, To weepe a funerall Elegy of teares, That trust me (my Amethus) I coo'd chide Mine owne vnmanly weakenesse, that made me A fellow-mourner with him. Amet. I beleeue thee. He lookes vpon the trophies of his Art, Then sigh'd, then wip'd his eyes, then sigh'd, and cride, Alas poore creature: I will soone reuenge This cruelty vpon the Author of it; Henceforth this Lute guilty of innocent blood, Shall neuer more betray a harmelesse peace To an vntimely end: and in that sorrow, As he was pashing it against a tree, I suddenly stept in. Thou hast discourst A truth of mirth and pitie. I reprieu'd Th'intended execution with intreaties, And interruption: but (my Princely friend) It was not strange, the musicke of his hand Did ouer-match birds, when his voyce and beauty, Youth, carriage and discretion, must, from men Indu'd with reason, rauish admiration: From me they did. But is this miracle Not to be seene?