Shold to the woods warble her victory; Strikes with inimitable blowes And flies through all the strings, now these, now those, Then tryes the notes, labours in each strayne And then expects if shee replyed agayne. The poore harmonious bird now almost dombe, But impatient, to be overcome Calls her sweet strength together all in vayne, For while shee thinkes to imitate each strayne In pure and natiue language, in this strife And dayntie musicke warre shee left her life, And yeldinge to the gladsome conquerour Falls in his fidle: a fit sepulchere. (_b_) _From 'Characters and Elegies.' By Francis Wortley, knight and baronet: 1646_ (p. 66). _A Paraphrase upon the Verses which Famianus Strada made of the Lutanist and Philomell in Contestation._ 'When past the middle orbe the parching sun Had downward nearer our horizon run A Lutenist neare Tiber's streames had found Where the eccho did resound. Under a holme a shady bower he made To ease his cares, his severall phancies play'd; The philomell no sooner did the musicke hear But straight-wayes she drew neare. The harmlesse Syren, musicke of the wood, Hid in a leavy-bush, she hearking stood, She ruminates upon the ayers he plaid, And to him answers made. With her shirl voyce doth all his paines requite Lost not one note, but to his play sung right; Well pleased to heare her skil, and envy, he Tryes his variety. And dares her with his severall notes, runs throw Even all the strains his skill could reach unto: A thousand wayes he tryes: she answers all, And for new straynes dares call. He could not touch a string in such a straine, To which she warble and not sung it plaine; His fingers could not reach to greater choice, Then she did with her voyce. The Lutenist admired her narrow throat Could reach so high or fall to any note: But that which he did thinke in her most strange, She instantly could change. Or sharpe or flat, or meane, or quicke, or slow, What ere he plaid, she the like skill would show: And if he inward did his notes recall, She answer made to all. Th' inraged Lutenist, he blusht for shame That he could not this weake corrivall tame: If thou canst answer this I'le breake my lute, And yeild in the dispute. He said no more, but aimes at such a height Of skill, he thought she could not imitate: He shows the utmost cunning of his hand And all he could command. He tryes his strength, his active fingers flye To every string and stop, now low, now high, And higher yet he multiplyes his skill, Then doth his chorus fill. Then he expecting stands to try if she His envy late would yeeld the victory: