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Now on my life this boy does sing as like the boy at the Whitefryers as ever I heard: how say you Captain? Suc. I, and the Musicks like theires: come, Sirra, whoes your Poett? Crac. Some mad wag, I warrant him: is this a new song? Mus. Tis the first edition, sir: none else but we had ever coppie of it. Suc. But you wilbe intreated to let a gent have it? Mus.
"A dotted tribe with ebon heads That climb the slender fence along, As black as ink, as thick as weeds, Ye little Africans of song." One book perhaps the worst, since it was the most pretentious was "The Compleat Melody or Harmony of Sion," by William Tansur, "Ingenious Tans'ur Skilled in Musicks Art." It was a most superficial, pedantic, and bewildering composition.
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