To friend with fingers quick & limber,
I send this piece of tunefull timber:
that, as 'tis said in Orpheus story,
He may teach trees to dance a Bory;
Or else in modern Phrase more knavish,
He may the heart of broomstick ravish.
The man whose parts in Taverns shine,
Doates on the merry pipe of wine;
& he who late has got his pate full,
perceives the water pipe is gratefull;
But these are pipes that still are mute,
there is some musick in a flute.
Which since I as a present send,
the presents worth to recommend,
Ile in soft words its praises warble,
translated from Italian marble.
'When ere we hear its strains & closes,
'Enchanted reason sweetly dozes,
'on laps of nymphs, & beds of roses;
'the Soul that all its charms admires,
'for lodgings in the ear enquires;
'Gay pictures do the Fancy store;
'& passions felt but heard no more.
All that my author says is true,
When th' instrument is playd by you.
& least you think I came by this ill,
Splut her was preed her from a whistle.