There was a theatrical fellow
Who played most bizarrely the cello:
   His tone supersonic,
   His air histrionic,
He jiggled vibratos like jello.




Don't exercise only at leisure:
Make rigor and vigor your pleasure:
   Develop a passion
   For clean intonassion 
And scales too even to measure.



Though wondrous are the monuments of stone
That yet enjoy the splendor of a prime
Lasting for ages—spanning lengths of time
Wherein were seeded, birthed, and fully grown
Great nations, cultures long since buried, gone—
And stand them still (sides slanted as a rhyme)
In total rapture when the arid clime
Around them swirls a storm of dust hard-blown,
When these have worn to so much desert sand
The greatest of Man’s achievements will be extinct,
Not because these will henceforth cease to stand,
But since the kosmos will have forgotten the tinct
And brittle leaves with hieroglyphics inked,—
The works that Beethoven scribbled out by hand.


A Phantasie

Upright, aristocratically
   The ladie sits before the keys.
Her quiet posture doth belie
   Her fingers busy activities.

They mix in mingling counterpoint,
   With wealthy harmonie they disport,
They daunce with skill in evry joynt,
   And doe with heauen's host consort.

And Master Philips I wo'd sweare
   His Fantasy had neuer play'd
Better then plays the ladie there,
   Sith sweeter music ne'er was made.