On the wav'd backe of every swelling straine, 95 Rising and falling in a pompous traine. And while she thus discharges a shrill peale Of flashing aires; she qualifies their zeale With the coole epode of a graver noat, Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat 100 Would reach the brazen voyce of War's hoarce bird; Her little soule is ravisht: and so pour'd Into loose extasies, that she is plac't Above her selfe, Musick's Enthusiast. Shame now and anger mixt a double staine 105 In the Musitian's face; yet once againe (Mistresse) I come; now reach a straine my lute Above her mocke, or be for ever mute; Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thy selfe, sing thine own obsequie: 110 So said, his hands sprightly as fire, he flings And with a quavering coynesse tasts the strings. The sweet-lip't sisters, musically frighted, Singing their feares, are fearefully delighted, Trembling as when Appolo's golden haires 115 Are fan'd and frizled, in the wanton ayres Of his own breath: which marryed to his lyre Doth tune the spheares, and make Heaven's selfe looke higher. From this to that, from that to this he flyes. Feeles Musick's pulse in all her arteryes; 120 Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocall threads. Following those little rills, he sinkes into A sea of Helicon; his hand does goe Those pathes of sweetnesse which with nectar drop, 125 Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup. The humourous strings expound his learnèd touch, By various glosses; now they seeme to grutch, And murmur in a buzzing dinne, then gingle In shrill-tongu'd accents: striving to be single. 130 Every smooth turne, every delicious stroake Gives life to some new grace; thus doth h' invoke Sweetnesse by all her names; thus, bravely thus (Fraught with a fury so harmonious) The lute's light genius now does proudly rise, 135 Heav'd on the surges of swolne rapsodyes, Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curle the aire With flash of high-borne fancyes: here and there Dancing in lofty measures, and anon Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone; 140 Whose trembling murmurs melting in wild aires Runs to and fro, complaining his sweet cares, Because those pretious mysteryes that dwell In Musick's ravish't soule, he dares not tell, But whisper to the world: thus doe they vary 145 Each string his note, as if they meant to carry Their Master's blest soule (snatcht out at his eares By a strong extasy) through all the spheares Of Musick's heaven; and seat it there on high In th' empyræum of pure harmony. 150 At length (after so long, so loud a strife