For they were rivals, and their mistress, Har Into a pretty anger, that a bird Whom art had never taught clefs, moods, or notes, Should vie with him for mastery, whose study Am. Now for the bird. Men. 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. 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, 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, |