Music: A Monthly Magazine Devoted to the Art, Science, Technic and Literature of Music, Volume 11

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W.S.B. Mathews, 1897
 

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Page 385 - The spinsters and the knitters in the sun, And the free maids that weave their thread with bones, Do use to chaunt it : it is silly sooth, And dallies with the innocence of love, Like the old age.
Page 538 - Halloo your name to the reverberate hills And make the babbling gossip of the air Cry out ' Olivia ! ' O, you should not rest Between the elements of air and earth, But you should pity me ! Oli. You might do much.
Page 381 - Be not afeard ; the isle is full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments Will hum about mine ears ; and sometime voices, That, if I then had wak'd after long sleep, Will make me sleep again : and then, in dreaming, The clouds methought would open, and show riches Ready to drop upon me ; that, when I wak'd, I cried to dream again.
Page 541 - It was the lark, the herald of the morn, No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east: Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
Page 385 - If music be the food of love, play on ; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again ! it had a dying fall : O ! it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
Page 384 - Subtle as Sphinx; as sweet and musical As bright Apollo's lute, strung with his hair. And when Love speaks, the voice of all the gods Make heaven drowsy with the harmony.
Page 379 - Orpheus with his lute made trees. And the mountain-tops that freeze, Bow themselves, when he did sing : To his music, plants and flowers Ever sprung ; as sun and showers There had made a lasting spring. Everything that heard him play, Even the billows of the sea, Hung their heads, and then lay by. In sweet music is such art : Killing care and grief of heart Fall asleep, or, hearing, die.
Page 378 - Therefore, the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods ; Since nought so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature...
Page 541 - How use doth breed a habit in a man ! This shadowy desert, unfrequented woods, I better brook than flourishing peopled towns : Here can I sit alone, unseen of any, And, to the nightingale's complaining notes, Tune my distresses, and record
Page 543 - Phoebus gins arise His steeds to water at those springs On chalic'd flowers that lies; And winking Mary-buds begin To ope their golden eyes; With every thing that pretty is, My lady sweet, arise, Arise, arise.

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