To friend with fingers quick & limber, <br />I send this piece of tunefull timber: <br />that, as 'tis said in Orpheus story, <br />He may teach trees to dance a Bory; <br />Or else in modern Phrase more knavish, <br />He may the heart of broomstick ravish. <br />The man whose parts in Taverns shine, <br />Doates on the merry pipe of wine; <br />& he who late has got his pate full, <br />perceives the water pipe is gratefull; <br />But these are pipes that still are mute, <br />there is some musick in a flute. <br />Which since I as a present send, <br />the presents worth to recommend, <br />Ile in soft words its praises warble, <br />translated from Italian marble. <br />'When ere we hear its strains & closes, <br />'Enchanted reason sweetly dozes, <br />'on laps of nymphs, & beds of roses; <br />'the Soul that all its charms admires, <br />'for lodgings in the ear enquires; <br />'Gay pictures do the Fancy store; <br />'& passions felt but heard no more. <br />All that my author says is true, <br />When th' instrument is playd by you. <br />& least you think I came by this ill, <br />Splut her was preed her from a whistle.<br /><br />Thomas Parnell<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/for-philip-ridgate-esq/
