Classic Poem

Many Musicians are more out of order than their Instruments: such as are so, may by singing this Ode, become reprovers of their own untuneable affections. They who are better tempered are hereby remembred what Musick is most acceptable to G O D, and most profitable to themselves.
What helps it those,
Who skill in Song have found;
Well to compose
(Of disagreeing notes)
By artfull choice
A sweetly pleasing sound;
To fit their Voice,
And their melodious throats?
What helps it them,
That they this cunning know;
If most condemn
The way in which they go?

What will he gain
By touching well his Lute,
Who shall disdain
A grave advise to hear?
What from the sounds,
Of Organ, Fife, or Lute,
To him redounds,
Who doth no sin forbear?
A mean respect,
By tuning strings, he hath,
Who doth neglect
A rectified-path.

Therefore, oh LORD,
So tuned, let me be
Unto thy word,
And thy ten-stringed-law,
That in each part,
I may thereto agree;
And feel my heart
Inspir'd with loving awe:
He sings and plaies,
The Songs which best thou lovest,
Who does and sayes,
The things which thou approvest.
Teach me the skill,
Of him, whose Harp asswag'd
Those passions ill,
Which oft afflicted Saul.

Teach me the strain
Which calmeth mindes enrag'd;
And which from vain
Affections doth recall.
So, to the Quire,
Where Angels musicke make,
I may aspire,
When I this life forsake.