THE MUSICAL STRIFE; IN A PASTORAL DIALOGUE by BEN JONSON

(SHE)

Come with our voices, let us war,
And challenge all the spheres,
Till each of us be made a star,
And all the world turn ears.

(HE)

At such a call, what beast or fowl,
Of reason empty is?
What tree or stone doth want a soul?
What man but must lose his?

(SHE)
Mix then your notes, that we may prove
To stay the running floods,
To make the mountain quarries move,
And call the walking woods!

(HE)
What need of me? Do you but sing,
Sleep, and the grave will wake.
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips do make.

(SHE)
They say the angels mark each deed,
And exercise below,
And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.

(HE)
O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall again; at such a feast,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

(SHE)
Nay, rather both our souls be strained
To meet their high desire;
So they in state of grace retained,
May wish us of their choir.

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