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Page 6 - How oft, when thou, my music, music play'st, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers, when thou gently sway'st The wiry concord that mine ear confounds, Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap To kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand!
Page 5 - The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils; The motions of his spirit are dull as night And his affections dark as Erebus: Let no such man be trusted.
Page 6 - ... kiss the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poor lips, which should that harvest reap, At the wood's boldness by thee blushing stand! To be so tickled, they would change their state And situation with those dancing chips O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait, Making dead wood more blest than living lips. Since saucy jacks so happy are in this, Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.
Page 16 - Parthenia or The Maydenhead of the first musicke that ever was printed for the Virginalls, composed by three famous Masters, William Byrd, Dr.
Page 161 - Clavichordconcerto, which will be handed to him, and which he will immediately play at sight; a Sonata handed him in like manner, which he will provide with variations, and afterwards repeat in another key; an Aria, the words for which will be handed to him, and which he will immediately set to music and sing himself, accompanying himself on the clavichord; a Sonata for clavichord on a subject given him by the leader of the violins; a Strict Fugue on a theme to be selected, which he will improvise...
Page 283 - Y piano is to me what his boat is to the seaman, what his horse is to the Arab: nay, more, it has been till now my eye, my speech, my life. Its strings have vibrated under my passions, and its yielding keys have obeyed my every caprice ** Perhaps the secret tie which holds me so closely to it is a delusion; but I hold the piano very high...
Page 62 - I am king of the fidlers, and sware 'tis a truth, And I call him that doubts it a gull. 149A.45 For I saw them fighting, and fidld the while, And Clorinda sung, Hey derry down! The bumpkins are beaten, put up thy sword, Bob, And now let's dance into the town.