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Dilettante Quartette From Painting by F. Hiddemann

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For they were rivals, and their mistress, Har

mony. Some time thus spent, the young man grew

at last Into a pretty anger, that a bird Whom art had never taught clefs, 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. Am. Now for the bird.

The bird, ordained to be Music's first martyr, strove to imitate These several sounds; which, when her war

bling 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

Men.

Mine own unmanly weakness, that made me
A fellow-mourner with him.
Am.

I believe thee. Men. He looked 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 nevermore betray a harmless peace To an untimely end ;” and in that sorrow, As he was pashing it against a tree, I suddenly stepped in.

John Ford.

TO HIS LUTE

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst

grow With thy green mother in some shady grove, When immelodious winds but made thee move, And birds on thee their ramage did bestow.

Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds

approve, Which used in such harmonious strains to

flow,

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