[Footnote 174: Qu: sound? or it may be = their circular movement (supposed). G.]
Heroicke minds with praises most incited, Seeke praise in Musicke and therein excell: God, man, beasts, birds, with Musicke are delighted, And pleasant t'is which pleaseth all so well: No greater profit is then self-content, And this will Musicke bring, and care preuent.
When antique Poets Musick's praises tell, They say it beasts did please, and stones did moue: To proue more dull then stones, then beasts more fell, Those men which pleasing Musicke did not loue; They fain'd, it Cities built, and States defended To shew the profite great on it depended.
Sweet birds (poor men's Musitians) neuer slake To sing sweet Musickes praises day and night: The dying Swans in Musicke pleasure take, To shew that it the dying can delight: In sicknesse, health, peace, warre, we do it need, Which proues sweet Musicks profit doth exceed.
But I by niggard praising, do dispraise Praise-worthy Musicke in my worthlesse Rime: Ne can the pleasing profit of sweet laies, Any saue learnèd Muses well define: Yet all by these rude lines may clearely see, Praise, pleasure, profite in sweet musicke be. [pp. 138-9.]
[Footnote 175: In my edition of Donne I have assigned these Ten Sonnets to him, but for reasons given in Memorial-Introduction now reclaim them for Davies. Our text is as with the others from the 'Rhapsody' of 1621, where they are numbered in the class of sonnets xxxiv. to xlii. They were originally signed Melophilus. The various readings are merely orthographical. G.]
Oft did I heare our eyes the passage weare, By which Loue entred to assaile our hearts: Therefore I garded them, and void of feare, Neglected the defence of other parts. Loue knowing this, the vsuall way forsooke: And seeking found a by-way by mine eare. At which he entring, my heart prisoner tooke, And vnto thee sweete Phylomel did beare. Yet let my heart thy heart to pitty moue, Whose paine is great, although small fault appeare. First it lies bound in fettring chaines of loue, Then each day it is rackt with hope and feare. And with loues flames tis euermore consumed, Only because to loue thee it presumed.
O why did Fame my heart to loue betray, By telling my Deares vertue and perfection? Why did my Traytor eares to it conuey That Syren-song, cause of my hearts infection? Had I been deafe, or Fame her gifts concealed, Then had my heart beene free from hopelesse Loue: Or were my state likewise by it reuealed, Well might it Philomel to pitty moue. Than should she know how loue doth make me languish, Distracting me twixt hope and dreadfull feare: Then should she know my care, my plaints and anguish, All which for her deare selfe I meekely beare. Yea I could quietly deaths paines abide, So that she knew that for her sake I dide.