78
A HYMNE TO HERMES.
Strooke euen his heart-strings; & his minde, made beare.
His Lute so powerfull was, in forcing loue;
(As his hand rul'd it) that from him it droue
All feare of Phœbus; yet he haue him still
The upper hand; and (to aduance his skill)
To utmost Miracle; he plaid sometimes,
Single awhile; In which, when all they Clymes
Of rapture he had reacht; (to make the Sunn
Admire enough) O then, his voice would runn
Such points vpon his play; and did so moue,
They tooke Apollo Prisoner to his loue.
And now the deathlesse Gods, and deathfull Earth
He sung; beginning, at their eithers Birth,
To full extent of all their Emperie.
And, first; the honor to Mnemosyne
(The Muses Mother) of all Goddesse states
He gaue; euen forc't too't, by the equall fates.
And then (as it did in Prioritie fall
Of Age, and Birth) He celebrated All.
And with such Elegance, and Order sung;
(His Lute still toucht, to stick more off his tongue)
That Phœbus heart, with infinite loue, he eate.
Who therefore thus, did his Deserts entreate:
Master of Sacrifice! chiefe soule of feast?
Patient of all paines? Artizan so blest;
That all things thou canst doe, in any One.
Worth fiftie Oxen is th'Inuention
Of this one Lute. We both, shall now; I hope;
His Lute so powerfull was, in forcing loue;
(As his hand rul'd it) that from him it droue
All feare of Phœbus; yet he haue him still
The upper hand; and (to aduance his skill)
To utmost Miracle; he plaid sometimes,
Single awhile; In which, when all they Clymes
Of rapture he had reacht; (to make the Sunn
Admire enough) O then, his voice would runn
Such points vpon his play; and did so moue,
They tooke Apollo Prisoner to his loue.
And now the deathlesse Gods, and deathfull Earth
He sung; beginning, at their eithers Birth,
To full extent of all their Emperie.
And, first; the honor to Mnemosyne
(The Muses Mother) of all Goddesse states
He gaue; euen forc't too't, by the equall fates.
And then (as it did in Prioritie fall
Of Age, and Birth) He celebrated All.
And with such Elegance, and Order sung;
(His Lute still toucht, to stick more off his tongue)
That Phœbus heart, with infinite loue, he eate.
Who therefore thus, did his Deserts entreate:
Master of Sacrifice! chiefe soule of feast?
Patient of all paines? Artizan so blest;
That all things thou canst doe, in any One.
Worth fiftie Oxen is th'Inuention
Of this one Lute. We both, shall now; I hope;
