Signor Pietro Reggio, On the Publishing his Book of Songs

If I could write with a Poetick fire
Equal to thine in MUSICK, I'd admire ,
And Praise Thee fully: Now my Verse will be
Short of thy Merit, as I short of Thee.
But I by this advantage shall receive,
Though to my Numbers I no Life can give,
Yet they by thy more lasting Skill shall live.
Thou canst alone preserve my perishing Fame,
By joyning Mine with Thy Immortal Name.
Heroes and Conquerours by Poets live;
Poets, from Men like Thee , must Life receive:
Like Thee! where such a Genius shall we find ,
So Quick, so Strong, so Subtile, so Refin'd,
'Mongst all the Bold Attempters of thy Kind?
Till I such MUSICK hear, such Art can see ,
I ne'r shall think that thou canst equal'd be.
My only doubt is now, which does excell,
Or thy Composing, or Performing well ,
And, Thou'rt in both, so exquisitely Rare,
We Thee alone can with thy self compare.
Thou dost alike, excell in every Strain,
And never fail'st to hit the Poet's Vein .
The Author's sense by Thee is ne'r perplext,
Thy MUSICK is a Comment on his Text .
Thou Nobly do'st not only give what's due
To ev'ry Verse, but dost Improve it too.
Poetick Gems are rough within the Mine ,
But Polisht by thy Art, with Lustre shine;
Even COWLEY' s Spirit is advanc'd by thine
Good English Artists, (to their Judgements true,)
Admire thy Works, and will respect thee too;
Thy Worth, and Skill, great Jenkins lov'd, and knew;
The Worthiest Master of my Youthful days,
Whom Thou so justly honour'st with thy Praise.

But the Pretenders of this Quacking Age,
Who, (with their Ditties,) plague the Town and Stage;
If their dull Notes will but the Numbers fit,
Ne'r mind the Poet's Spirit, or his Wit;
But think All's done, if it be true by Rule,
Though one may write true Grammar like a Fool :
Still in their Beaten Road, they troll along,
And make alike the sad and cheerful Song:
The Past'ral, and the War-like are the same;
The Dirge, and Triumph, differ but in Name .
Such their Performance is: Nay, not so good;
A Funeral Song they Chaunt with cheerful Mood ,
And Sigh and Languish in a Drunken Ode.
In Martial ones they're soft, in Am'rous, rough;
And never think they Shake and Grace enough .
Each Shake and Grace so harshly too, th'express ,
A Horse's Neighing does not please me less
We cannot call this Singing, but a Noise;
Not Gracing, but a Jogging of the Voice:
And this is in such narrow Compass too,
That in one Song we hear all they can do:
These, who behind thy back dare rail at thee,
Would, (if they knew Themselves) thy Scholars be.
But they against thy Harmony are Arm'd ,
They're duller Beasts than any Orpheus charm'd .

In thy Invention, and thy Singing too ,
Thy Fancy's ever Various, ever New .
Thou to each Temper canst the Heart engage,
To Grief canst soften, and inflame to Rage.
With Horrour fright, with Love canst make us burn,
Make us Rejoyce one Moment, and next Mourn,
And canst the Mind to every Passion turn.
And to each Grace and Cadence, thy great Art ,
Such soft Harmonious Sweetness does impart ,
With gentle Violence thou dost storm a Heart.
How oft dost thou my Anxious Cares destroy,
And make me want, or wish no other Joy!
For when thy Ayres, perform'd by Thee , I hear ,
No Wealth I envy, and no Power, Ifear;
Nor Misery, nor Death I apprehend,
For Fame nor Liberty can I contend,
When I am Charm'd by Thee , my Excellent Friend.

And thou art so; and every Qualitie
Which in a Friend's requir'd, does shine in Thee
Thou hast read much, and canst Philosophise,
Quick in thy Reason, Fancy-full, yet Wise,
Honest and Kind art, Gentle, and yet Brave,
Modest, not Bashful; Humble, yet no Slave:
In your own Language Y'are a Poet too ,
So good, I wish that Ours as well You knew,
Though I should blush at what You then would do:
Yet th' English Tongue so well thou canst command ,
Great COWLEY' s Virtues thou dost understand .
Thou on each Excellence of His canst hit,
On every Master-stroak of his Unbounded Wit.
And which yet makes me Love, and Praise thee more,
Thou above All, dost his Illustrious Name adore.
But to thy Praise I now must put an end,
'Tis using of Self-Int'rest with my Friend ,
For who e'r Praises Thee, does then Himself commend.
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