此时，太阳已经在西边度过了正午最灿烂的光辉，在台伯河畔，在一棵橡树的庇荫下，有一个可爱的琵琶琴师坐着:在他温柔的歌声中，他褪去了白天的炎热，也褪去了自己的烦恼。在树叶的隐密处，站着一只夜莺，从邻近的树林里飞来。每棵快乐树上甜美的居民，他们的缪斯，他们的叙伦，无害的叙伦，她站在那儿唱着歌，听着音乐的轻柔的奏奏，在她自己的低语中塑造着同样的旋律，无论上帝的奇妙的手指赋予她什么样的心情，她的声音都使它变好了。那人看出了他的对手和她的艺术;他唤醒了他的琵琶，准备迎接即将到来的战斗，用一种甜美的、更近的调子把它奏出来;在战争开始之前，他在每一根弦上都轻微地打了一下，充满了飞翔的感觉;她立刻把她那优美的嗓音雕刻成千百个甜美而清晰的音调，并在柔和的分音中计算出大量的狂野音符，让他知道，凭借那尖锐的味道，她也能有所作为。他那灵巧的手的本能教会了他每一根琴弦一顶欢快的帽子;让它们跟着自己的舞蹈歌唱; now negligently rash He throws his arm, and with a long-drawn dash Blends all together, then distinctly trips From this to that, then, quick returning, skips And snatches this again, and pauses there. She measures every measure, everywhere Meets art with art ; sometimes, as if in doubt? Not perfect yet, and fearing to be out? Trails her plain ditty in one long-spun note Through the sleek passage of her open throat : A clear unwrinkled song ; then doth she point it With tender accents, and severely joint it By short diminutives, that, being rear'd In controverting warbles evenly shared, With her sweet self she wrangles ; he, amazed That from so small a channel should be raised The torrent of a voice, whose melody Could melt into such sweet variety, Strains higher yet, that tickled with rare art The tattling strings?each breathing in his part? Most kindly do fall out ; the grumbling base In surly groans disdains the treble's grace ; The high-perch'd treble chirps at this, and chides Until his finger?moderator?hides And closes the sweet quarrel, rousing all, Hoarse, shrill, at once : as when the trumpets call Hot Mars to th' harvest of death's field, and woo Men's hearts into their hands ; this lesson, too, She gives him back, her supple breast thrills out Sharp airs, and staggers in a warbling doubt Of dallying sweetness, hovers o'er her skill, And folds in waved notes, with a trembling bill, The pliant series of her slippery song ; Then starts she suddenly into a throng Of short thick sobs, whose thundring volleys float And roll themselves over her lubric throat In panting murmurs, 'still'd out of her breast, That ever-bubbling spring, the sugar'd nest Of her delicious soul, that there does lie Bathing in streams of liquid melody,? Music's best seed-plot ; when in ripen'd airs A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, plough'd by her breath, Which there reciprocally laboureth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire Founded to th' name of great Apollo's lyre ; Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipp'd angel-imps, that swill their throats In cream of morning Helicon ; and then Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing ;? Most divine service ! whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice In the close murmur of a sparkling noise, And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song ; Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out, Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast ; Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, Wing'd with their own wild echos, pratt'ling fly. She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride On the waved back of every swelling strain, Rising and falling in a pompous train ; And while she thus discharges a shrill peal Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal With the cool epode of a graver note ; Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war's hoarse bird ; Her little soul is ravish'd : and so pour'd Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed Above herself?music's enthusiast ! Shame now and anger mixed a double stain In the musician's face ; yet