She would not yeeld, but summons all her force Though tyrèd out and hoarse. She strives with various strings the lute's bast chest The spirit of man, one narrow throat and chest: Unequal matches, yet she's pleased that she Concludes victoriously. Her spirit was such she would not live to heare The Lutenist bestow on her a jeere, But broken-hearted fall upon the tombe She choose the sweet lute's wombe. The warbling lutes doe yet their triumphs tell (With mournfull accents) of the philomell, And have usurpt the title ever since, Of harmony the prince. The morall this, by emulation wee May much improve both art and industry, Though she deserve the name of Philomell Yet men must her excell.' A third (anonymous) translation, with the Latin on the opposite pages, I came on in LANSDOWNE MSS. 3910, Pl. lxvi. from which extracts will be found in our Essay. In the SANCROFT MS. the heading is 'Fidicinis et Philomelæ Bellum Musicum. R. CR.' It reads in line 79 'whence' for 'where;' adopted: line 125, 'pathes' for 'parts;' adopted: other variations only orthographic, as is the case with the different editions. I note these: in 1670, line 83 reads 'might you:' line 99, 1646 misprints 'grave:' line 156, our text misprints 'full-mouth,' and so 1646; I adopt 'full-mouth'd' from 1670 and SANCROFT MS. G. THE PRAISE OF THE SPRING: OUT OF VIRGIL.[62] All trees, all leavy groves confesse the Spring 1 Their gentlest friend; then, then the lands begin To swell with forward pride, and feed desire To generation; Heaven's Almighty Sire Melts on the bosome of His love, and powres 5 Himselfe into her lap in fruitfull showers. And by a soft insinuation, mixt With Earth's large masse, doth cherish and assist Her weake conceptions. No lone shade but rings With chatring birds' delicious murmurings; 10 Then Venus' mild instinct (at set times) yields The herds to kindly meetings, then the fields (Quick with warme Zephyre's lively breath) lay forth Their pregnant bosomes in a fragrant birth. Each body's plump and jucy, all things full 15 Of supple moisture: no coy twig but will Trust his beloved blossome to the sun (Growne lusty now): no vine so weake and young That feares the foule-mouth'd Auster or those stormes That the Southwest-wind hurries in his armes, 20 But hasts her forward blossomes, and layes out Freely layes out her leaves: nor doe I doubt But when the world first out of chaos sprang So smil'd the dayes, and so the tenor ran Of their felicity. A Spring was there, 25 An everlasting Spring, the jolly yeare Led round in his great circle; no wind's breath As then did smell of Winter or of Death.