On the Death of that most famous Musician Mr W. Lawes, slain in this unhappy Civil Warr

Such is the strange Antipathie between
The Wolfe and sheep; that a Drum with Wolves skin
Headed and beat, the partchment bottome breaks,
And soundless to the stick no answer makes:
So the Wolfe's by, the Lambstrings break; so dumb
Is th'other, when you sound a Wolves-skin'd Drum.
By Wolves our Orpheus thus oppos'd was slain;
His Lyres offended strings thus crackt in twain,
At their harsh foes approach, and rang his knell.
Such untun'd souls, who discord lov'd too well,
Knew not the Heav'n of Musicks harmonie
(And who not love't dull or il-natur'd be.)
But more enraged grew. Else like those
Wild beasts Amphion tam'd, they wou'd ha' rose
Inspir'd with love, and kist those hands, whose aires
Ravisht the birds, and taught the heav'nly Spheres
To move in pleasing consort. But e'r sin'
Our Lawes expir'd, this Common-wealth hath bin
Quite out of tune. Could his surviving laies
Yet 'swage our Genius (as Pythagoras
With his soft accents, and sweet streins subdu'd
And well appeas'd a mad-brain'd multitude)
I'de swear they were Divine, whose pow'rful breath
Could Eccho his rare concords after death,
And in Loves Symphonie unite each part.
This had been done by Lawes his hand and Art,
(Had he but liv'd;) e'r now. Melpomene,
Mourn then! for earth hath lost her harmonie.