PHILOMUSUS.
Our life is a plain-song with cunning penn'd,
Whose highest pitch in lowest base doth end.
But see, our fellows unto play are bent;
If not our minds, let's tune our instrument.
STUDIOSO.
Let's in a private song our cunning try,
Before we sing to stranger company.
[PHILOMUSUS sings. They tune.
How can he sing, whose voice is hoarse with care?
How can he play, whose heart-strings broken are?
How can he keep his rest, that ne'er found rest?
How can he keep his time, whom time ne'er bless'd?
Only he can in sorrow bear a part
With untaught hand and with untuned heart.
Fond hearts, farewell, that swallow'd have my youth;
Adieu, vain muses, that have wrought my ruth;
Repent, fond sire, that train'dst thy hapless son
In learning's lore, since bounteous alms are done.
Cease, cease, harsh tongue: untuned music, rest;
Entomb thy sorrows in thy hollow breast.
STUDIOSO.
Thanks, Philomusus, for thy pleasant song.
O, had this world a touch of juster grief,
Hard rocks would weep for want of our relief.
PHILOMUSUS.
The cold of woe hath quite untun'd my voice,
And made it too-too hard for list'ning ear:
Time was, in time of my young fortune's spring,
I was a gamesome boy, and learn'd to sing—
But say, fellow-musicians, you know best whither we go: at what door
must we imperiously beg?
JACK FIDDLERS. Here dwells Sir Raderic and his son. It may be now at this good time of new year he will be liberal. Let us stand near, and draw.
PHILOMUSUS. Draw, callest thou it? Indeed, it is the most desperate kind of service that ever I adventured on.
ACTUS V., SCAENA 2.
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