Why is your mind thus all day long br Upon your music set; br Till reason's swallowed in a song, br Or idle canzonet? br br br I grant you, Melesinda, when br Your instrument was new, br I was well pleased to see you then br Its charms assiduous woo. br br br The rudiments of any art br Or mastery that we try, br Are only on the learner's part br Got by hard industry. br br br But you are past your first essays; br Whene'er you play, your touch, br Skilful and light, ensures you praise: br All beyond that's too much. br br br Music's sweet uses are, to smooth br Each rough and angry passion; br To elevate at once, and soothe: br A heavenly recreation. br br br But we misconstrue, and defeat br The end of any good; br When what should be our casual treat, br We make our constant food. br br br While, to the exclusion of the rest, br This single art you ply, br Your nobler studies are supprest, br Your books neglected lie. br br br Could you in what you so affect br The utmost summit reach; br Beyond what fondest friends expect, br Or skilfullest masters teach: br br br The skill you learned would not repay br The time and pains it cost, br Youth's precious season thrown away, br And reading-leisure lost. br br br A benefit to books we owe br Music can ne'er dispense; br The one does only sound bestow, br The other gives us sense.