To A Young Lady, On Being Too Fond Of Music

Why is your mind thus all day long Upon your music set; Till reason's swallow'd in a song, Or idle canzonet?

I grant you, Melesinda, when Your instrument was new, I was well pleas'd to see you then Its charms assiduous woo.

The rudiments of any art Or mast'ry that we try, Are only on the learner's part Got by hard industry.

But you are past your first essays; Whene'er you play, your touch, Skilful, and light, ensures you praise: All beyond that's too much.

Music's sweet uses are, to smooth Each rough and angry passion; To elevate at once, and soothe: A heavenly recreation.

But we misconstrue, and defeat The end of any good; When what should be our casual treat, We make our constant food.

While, to th' exclusion of the rest, This single art you ply, Your nobler studies are supprest, Your books neglected lie.

Could you in what you so affect The utmost summit reach; Beyond what fondest friends expect, Or skilful'st masters teach:

The skill you learn'd would not repay The time and pains it cost, Youth's precious season thrown away, And reading-leisure lost.

A benefit to books we owe, Music can ne'er dispense; The one does only sound bestow, The other gives us sense.