Tixall Poetry.
39
Whither't be propper lazynesse in fine,
Or else despare to pitch a lute lyke thyne,
Makes me scrape boldly this gittar of myne.
Had I, lyke Doctor Gibbs, some serious trade,
It weire excuse sufficient to perswade
That rime was all the play and sport I had.
Yet made I but of verse each day a score
Lyke his, I'd sweare he playd as much, and more,
That sweats to hold a plow, or tugge an oare.
Indeed, I ever scorn'd laborious toy es,
Lyke songs here stray n'd out of our squealing boy es,
While spheires and angells sing and make no noyse.
So leaden-fingerd organists doe tire
Ther joints, to make the clattering kayes sownd higher
In verginalls, an octave then the wyre.
While Young's, or Butler's hands, one dancing went,
Lyke graces, ore the fretts, one shooting sent
A sound abstracted from all instrument;
Methought they play'd upon my hartstrings too,
And shot lyke Cupids in Apollos bow,
Such learned sweets through every veine did flow.
Or else despare to pitch a lute lyke thyne,
Makes me scrape boldly this gittar of myne.
Had I, lyke Doctor Gibbs, some serious trade,
It weire excuse sufficient to perswade
That rime was all the play and sport I had.
Yet made I but of verse each day a score
Lyke his, I'd sweare he playd as much, and more,
That sweats to hold a plow, or tugge an oare.
Indeed, I ever scorn'd laborious toy es,
Lyke songs here stray n'd out of our squealing boy es,
While spheires and angells sing and make no noyse.
So leaden-fingerd organists doe tire
Ther joints, to make the clattering kayes sownd higher
In verginalls, an octave then the wyre.
While Young's, or Butler's hands, one dancing went,
Lyke graces, ore the fretts, one shooting sent
A sound abstracted from all instrument;
Methought they play'd upon my hartstrings too,
And shot lyke Cupids in Apollos bow,
Such learned sweets through every veine did flow.
8
