STRADAS Musical Duel;  
IN LATIN, Much Enlarged in English: By the Addition of several Traverses between the HARPER and NIGHTINGALE;  
TOGETHER WITH A more particular Account of the Issue of the CONTEST.  
LONDON, Printed by I. W. for William Gilbert, at the Half Moon in St. Paul's Churchyard; 1671.   

THE STATIONER To the Reader.  
COnsulting mine own, and several Musical Friends ease and freedom from farther trouble in transcribing of Copies; and withal designing some small Advantage to myself by the Impression; I have thus adventured the Publication of this harmless Divertisement; no less exposing myself to the Censure of the AUTHOR, than his POEM to the Judgement of others, whether POETS, or MUSICIANS; and wish I were as well secured as to my hope of Pardon from him, as he against his fear of being condemned by them.  
W. G.   

Stradas Musical Duel, IN LATIN;  
First imitated in English by Mr. Crashaw, then by Mr. Hinton; and now by a third Hand so enlarged, and the whole Frame of the Poem so altered, that little of Strada is preserved, save only the Scene, and Issue of the Duel: All in a more familiar Style than that of Claudian imitated by Strada.  

THe SUN the youthful Morn, and mid-aged Day  
Had made; now stooped in Evenings elder Ray;  
When, close by Tiber, on a turf-piled Plate,  
Under a well spread Oak's cool shadow, sat  
The Owner, and (what's more) the Master too  
Of a sweet Harp; a Harp that well might go  
For Mistress of all Harps; his skilful Hand,  
As well as that his Thoughts, could understand;  
And, what she understood, as well expound  
In the sweet Language of all Artful Sound.   

To give long troubled thoughts some short repose,  
This Instrument, this Time, this Place he chose.  
The Instrument, such thoughts as he should treat'em  
With grave to humour, with sprack Air to cheat'em:  
The Time, if old Cares might their heat allay  
By sympathy with the old-growing Day:  
The Place, that Accents, uttered on the Brim,  
Might ore-thwart-down-up-stream long briskly swim,  
A Wood-side, that what entered single sound,  
Might thousand Echoes multiplied rebound.   

Nor doth the Place defeat, but   
His thoughts; gives with those Helps a Rival too.  
For as, this slack'ning, screwing that string higher,  
He, to his humour, tuned his pliant Lyre;  
A Wood-bred Siren hearing (Siren she  
As harmless, as the Sea-breed hurtful be;  
(A Man but by the Ear takes, those trapan,  
And by the Ear alone take the Whole Man.)  
A Nightingale, the Queen of a sweet Choir,  
Her Empire deems invaded by the Lyre.  
Upon the Frontiers therefore bend to try  
Her now, ne'er till now, doubtful Destiny;  
The same Oak chose, her Ambush, and her Cage;  
And so of this famed War the honoured Stage.  
Hence runs she o'er the Gammut of her throat,  
And throws the Harper back each tuning Note.  
Prevents her Season to accept his Time,  
And the proud Challenge of his Lyral Chime.   

The startled Harper, thus alarmed, forth sends  
Oft well tried Forces to his Finger's ends;  
Instructs his Harp, at a strange skilful rate,  
The Warlike Trumpet first to imitate;  
And sound her own Charge: strait, amazed, he heard  
The Mock to his Mock-Trumpet from the Bird.  
The Mock-Marine from that her Mock invented,  
But one Chord bears, with many a Fret indented.)   

Next a swift Prelude up Forlorn he brings,  
And lightly skirmishes o'er all his strings.  
The Bird too her light-harnest Notes forth sent,  
And his bore back down to the Instrument.   

But then of music's War gins the Dance,  
When Suits of Lessons, as his Gross, advance;  
Bases and Trebles, with their Flats and Sharps,  
The Wood resounds as all her Trees were Harps:  
Enough to make the Bird suspect, all made  
To her Oak-Ambush, Counter-Ambuscade.  
But unsurprized she labouring all her throat,  
(Her Foe her Judge) returns him all his Note;  
The Wood more than all hers. He much admires  
One single Bird Echoed to many Quires:  
Much more one small throat fully answering  
The Harp's profuse Variety of String;  
And his of Touch; the Tuning, Cliff, Key, Mood,  
The Time he chose, all by her Voice made Good.  
The Lessons he, oft seen, with much Pains learned,  
She, at first hearing, True, Clean, Sweet returned.  
Without Book Pavin-Grand Pas, Almain-Trot,  
And the Coronto-Amble so soon got.  
Knew the False-Gallop of the Saraband:  
And could the Full-Speed of the Jig command.  
What Lessons e'er he played, sung to the Life.  
Wisely then stints he this vain Part of Strife.   

When ready-prest close Composition  
No whit advanced his War; he thought upon  
(His sweet Bird-Rival so to overpow'r;  
And sink her in as smart, as sweet a Shower)  
His free lose Voluntaries; in which kind  
He played as soft as A'er, as swift as Wind.  
As 'tis with some Extemporary Wits;  
His sudden better were than studied Hits.   

Their Vortices with swift hand stirred, than he  
music's lose Atoms, in sweet Harmony,  
By Casual Concourse blends; far above theirs,  
In all, but Posture, who the well-tuned Spheres  
Whirl in uncessant Round; leaving no place  
For his Decorum, and well-ordered Grace  
Of Pause and Rest; which Play as much commend  
As good shade Beauty doth to Picture lend.  
As Parts, and Limbs not more regarded be,  
Than their due Distance, in just Symmetry.  
Nay Parts of Music these, though not of Sound;  
The Chinks of this to fill up that were found;  
And the discreeter Silence of his Strings,  
As grateful, as their sweetest Prattleings.  
Nor sudden Nonplus was his sudden Pause:  
Judgement as quick as Fancy, here gave Laws;  
As in his rash Play; which bold, not blind was;  
Was rashly skilful, skilfuly was rash:  
All like it self, and him. But though this Knack  
Had Idolised him, with no Common Pack  
Of unskilled Harpers; Yet he strait shall know,  
He here mistook his Weapon, and his Foe:  
Who hath him now at her wished Lock; for he  
Using his loser Freedom, so doth she.  
In Art, or Honour deems herself no more  
Bound to Returns in Specie, as before.  
But, on good Ground, from Air, and Accent varies  
(They had not else to her been Voluntaries)  
Giving him so to understand, that she  
Invention had, as well as Memory.  
No Deaf-born Don was, who in better Tone  
Can others Words repeat, than speak his own.  
Yea, let's him see, but see full sore aghast,  
He here attacqed music's Enthusiast.  
So her own Poet, so her own free Muse;  
That, she herself encaged, her Song is lose.  
The little Saw on her part more than good:  
She's born the Poet, and Muse of the Wood  
Other inspired ones Rapture wait from far;  
And sometimes long; her Inspirations are  
Her Nature; still within; as near at hand  
As she herself; still ready at Command.  
She, when she please, herself can, in a trice,  
Ravish in music's sweetest Rhapsodies:  
And pleaseth now to do so; first to fill  
Her little Breast, the Storehouse of her Bill,  
With sweetest Breath; then send it up to that  
So sweetly Chirping Natu'ral-Flagellat:  
To be carved out in as sweet Tones of Voice:  
And so it strait was; in thousand Wild notes choice  
Far above those of Art; as, if the same  
For kind, Wild Fowl much sweeter is than Tame.   

First long unwrinkled Threads of Voice she spun:  
Shorter next drew, and finer many a one.  
These finely twisted then so cuts and shreads,  
All, but as Ends, appears of those fine Threads.  
The first was Nature▪ s Plainsong, and her Grounds;  
The next her Descant, last Divisions.  
Yea, all these she so blends, as her small Breast  
Had been of all sized Viols a full Chest:  
And all together sounding in the Hands  
Of (for all Parts) best skilled Musicians.  
For she as well as they, due Time, and Place  
Knew for sweet Relish, and all other Grace.  
In Dropping Notes her Voice would swifter glide,  
Than boldest Hand on Strings could Posting Ride.  
But above all, when on a Note she hit,  
That highly pleased, she would so gargoyle it  
In a longwinded Trill; as loath to part  
With so much sweetness; Nature prompting Art.  
Sweet Draughts so Drunkards on their Throat-brim treat:  
Gluttons roll o'er their tongues Teat-bits of meat.   

Here (the Birds Honour bade her not repeat)  
The herein baffled Harper sounds Retreat.  
But such Retreat he made, as Men devise  
For longer Leaps to take a better Rise.  
Such, as for Flight in other Wars they feign,  
With more Advantage to fall on again.  
So acts our Harper; whose Retirements be  
But from lose Fancy, to fast Memory.  
When having some while run, and ransacked o'er  
That Treasury of much well-ordered Store:  
I have't, he cried; Wood-Citharist, I come  
With Offering either for thy Shrine, or Tomb;  
As thou reply'st; of Cross-grained Brawls a Suit,  
Which shall as crossly fingered, strike thee Mute;  
Or else my Harp; whose next great task must be  
Proud Triumph, or her last, sad Obsequy.   

With that, Cross Tuning to Cross Fingering,  
Cross Fing'rings fitting to his Cross tuned Strings;  
He Cross-grained Brawls performs at such a Rate,  
His Harp seems but a sweeter Belin's-Gate.   

The big budge Base grunts, grumbles, growls, and groans  
'Gainst the shrill Treble all his surly Tones.  
The slender-wasted Triple Chirping Chides,  
And from her high-raised Perch gibing derides  
The Churlish Base. These Jarrings he makes fall  
In Tones of right Hermaphroditish Brawl,  
'Twixt Man and Woman. Nor so ends the Brangle;  
But Base with Base, Triple with Triple wrangle.   

Two sullen Bases, 'twixt two Men as surly,  
He makes to represent the Hurly-Burly:  
Thick, growling Tones of foul-mouthed words a Throng,  
And lusty Thumps the sturdy Blows among.   

Trebles alone then skilfully he moulds  
To the right Accents of mere Women-Scolds:  
Their Tuning, far from unisons, designs  
For imbred Discords in the Female Minds.  
When touched, their jarring Accents aptly meant  
The Quarrels of She-Tongues to represent.  
Upon a softer touch submisser Jarrings,  
Before they barked, the Dogged women's Snarlings.  
When harder Strokes yet harsher Jars out-hammer;  
This spoke the Scolding women's louder Clamour.  
Many such Strings together when he'd strike;  
Confused Brawls of more Scolds at once 'twas like.  
Ill names when tried, the Strings knowing him mean  
Would say, ye filthy Jade! ye dirty Quean!  
Yea, Pinching of such jarring Strings he'd show  
Scratching, as well as Scold, of that Crew.  
Straight rudelyer handled put 'em to such Squeeks,  
As would exactly render Female Shrieks.  
Some short Pause made, to work again he'd go:  
Just as such Scolds, when out of breath, will do.   

And then (his Masterpiece) this Level-coil  
Of threefold Scold he blends in one great Broil.  
Yet so, as all together heard at once,  
Are heard apart too in their several Tones.  
The Man with Man, the Man with Woman holding  
Their Brawl on foot; Woman with Woman scolding,  
The last the loudest. All this of Vocal Strife  
On one poor single Harp done to the Life.  
The Harper's Hands, than the Harp's Strings no less  
Striving, which all this Strife could best express.  
His Thoughts too with his Hands contending; they  
Best to instruct, and these best to obey.   

He last of all Tenor, and Mean sends in,  
To close the Ruptures of this Brawling Din.  
The Tenor he too partially doth lean  
Unto the Neighbouring Base; but the just Mean,  
As Equal in Respect, as Posture, tries  
To bring the two Extremes to Comprimise.  
Nor tries in vain; abating Neither's Noise,  
He tempers both in due Harmonious Poise.   

The well-pleased Strings awhile Congratulate  
This late Return to their old Friendly State.  
Who, whensoe'er this Mock-Brawl they begun,  
Still feared a Real Feud  they had done.  
Like Jesting Quarrel managed among Friends,  
Till Jesting in an Earnest Quarrel ends.   

The Harper too breathes now a frecer A'er:  
And all, but 'twixt the Bird and him, is fair.  
His Stormy Soul recalmed, he quiet lies:  
Listening what his Antagonist replies,   

Alas! his troubled thoughts were so transferred  
To the as Restless now, as Resty Bird;  
She fills her Bag; and blows, and blows; but brings  
Forth Nothing, beyond softer Murmur.  
Sweet little Soul! she had accustomed long  
To pleasant Air, and well-tuned peaceful Song.  
But could not tune her pretty Pipe at all  
To the Cross-Capers of such Jarring Brawl.  
No less to Jar the Mock at loss for Strings,  
Than of the Real one for Humorings.   

Her Hopes all ruined thus, beyond Repair;  
Her tender Breast, with Thorns of black Despair,  
She pricked, and pierced through feels; not such, as she  
Used to awake her to her Melody:  
But such, wherewith her Airy Soul oppressed  
Is Silenced in Eternal Pause, and Rest.  
Affording not so Musical a Throat  
For her own Requiem one Fun'eral Note.   

Despairing then of rallying Force to stand  
Such fresh Reserves of that all-powerful Hand:  
Despairing with her Foe t' prevail to yield,  
Or with her Honour so to quit the Field:  
Her Soul resolved into that finer Ae'r,  
And sweeter Number its Ingredients were.  
Her small Corpse on the Harp drops breathless down:  
That undue TROPHY was no unmeet TOMB.  
APOLLO 's Priest here, with due Burial Rite,  
Doth MELODY to MELODY commit.   

The Harp now lays her Emulation by:  
Nor Glories in the Pride of Victory,  
But in the Spoil; Access the Dead Corpse brings,  
Embalmed in its own Sweetness, to her Strings.  
The Soul too, first retrieved, anon retired  
Into the Harp; which sweetly thus inspired  
Needs no more FILL of other Vocal Tone:  
Itself is VOICE, and INSTRUMENT in One.  
And so at Once both Rings the Fun'eral Peal,  
And Sings the Requi'em of sweet PHILOMELA.    

HAd the Author propounded CLAUDIAN's Lofty Style for his Imitation in English, as STRADA did in Latin, he would have begun thus:  
THe SUN Noon-Throne descending had laid by  
His ROYAL Robes of highest MAJESTY;  
And in a thinner Garb of milder Ray,  
With headlong Course, run the last Stage of Day.  
And so have proceeded accordingly: But designing only innocent Drollery, chose a Verse nearer Burlesque or Lampoon, as fit for that purpose.   
FINIS.