Here you will find the Long Poem A Translation Of The Nightingale Out Of Strada of poet William Strode
Now the declining sun 'gan downwards bend From higher heavens, and from his locks did send A milder flame, when near to Tiber's flow A lutinist allay'd his careful woe With sounding charms, and in a greeny seat Of shady oake took shelter from the heat. A Nightingale oreheard him, that did use To sojourn in the neighbour groves, the muse That fill'd the place, the Syren of the wood; Poore harmless Syren, stealing neare she stood Close lurking in the leaves attentively Recording that unwonted melody: Shee cons it to herselfe and every strayne His finger playes her throat return'd again. The lutinist perceives an answeare sent From th' imitating bird and was content To shewe her play; more fully then in hast He tries his lute, and (giving her a tast Of the ensuing quarrel) nimbly beats On all his strings; as nimbly she repeats, And (wildely ranging ore a thousand keys) Sends a shrill warning of her after-layes. With rolling hand the Lutinist then plies His trembling threads; sometimes in scornful wise He brushes down the strings and keemes them all With one even stroke; then takes them severall And culles them ore again. His sparkling joynts (With busy descant mincing on the points) Reach back with busy touch: that done hee stayes, The bird replies, and art with art repayes, Sometimes as one unexpert or in doubt How she might wield her voice, shee draweth out Her tone at large and doth at first prepare A solemne strayne not weav'd with sounding ayre, But with an equall pitch and constant throate Makes clear the passage of her gliding noate; Then crosse division diversly shee playes, And loudly chanting out her quickest layes Poises the sounds, and with a quivering voice Falls back again: he (wondering how so choise, So various harmony should issue out From such a little throate) doth go about Some harder lessons, and with wondrous art Changing the strings, doth upp the treble dart, And downwards smites the base; with painefull stroke Hee beats, and as the trumpet doth provoke Sluggards to fight, even so his wanton skill With mingled discords joynes the hoarse and shrill: The Bird this also tunes, and while she cutts Sharp notes with melting voice, and mingled putts Measures of middle sound, then suddenly Shee thunders deepe, and juggs it inwardly, With gentle murmurs, cleare and dull shee sings, By course, as when the martial warning rings: Beleev't the minstrel blusht; with angry mood Inflam'd, quoth hee, thou chauntresse of the wood, Either from thee Ile beare the prize away, Or vanquisht break my lute without delay. Inimitable accents then hee straynes; His hand flyes ore the strings: in one hee chaynes Four different numbers, chasing here and there, And all the strings belabour'd everywhere: Both flatt and sharpe hee strikes, and stately grows To prouder straynes, and backwards as he goes Doubly divides, and closing upp his layes Like a full quire a shouting consort playes; Then pausing stood in expectation If his corrival now dares answeare on; But shee when practice long her throate had whett, Induring not to yield, at once doth sett Her spiritt all of worke, and all in vayne; For while shee labours to express againe With nature's simple touch such diverse keyes, With slender pipes such lofty noates as these, Orematcht with high designes, orematcht with woe, Just at the last encounter of her foe Shee faintes, shee dies, falls on his instrument That conquer'd her; a fitting monument. So far even little soules are driven on, Struck with a vertuous emulation.