Both from the Ears and Mind: Thinking about Music in Early Modern England 9780226704678

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Both from the Ears & Mind

Both from the Ears & Mind Thinking about Music in Early Modern England

Linda Phyllis Austern

The University of Chicago Press Chicago and London

The University of Chicago Press, Chicago 60637 The University of Chicago Press, Ltd., London © 2020 by The University of Chicago All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations in critical articles and reviews. For more information, contact the University of Chicago Press, 1427 E. 60th St., Chicago, IL 60637. Published 2020 Printed in the United States of America 29 28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20  1 2 3 4 5 ISBN-­13: 978-­0-­226-­70159-­2 (cloth) ISBN-­13: 978-­0-­226-­70467-­8 (e-­book) DOI: https://​doi​.org​/10​.7208​/chicago​/9780226704678​.001​.0001 This book has been supported by the Martin Picker Fund of the American Musicological Society, funded in part by the National Endowment for the Humanities and the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Austern, Linda Phyllis, 1957– author. Title: Both from the ears and mind : thinking about music in early modern England / Linda Phyllis Austern. Description: Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 2020. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2019045110 | ISBN 9780226701592 (cloth) | ISBN 9780226704678 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Music—England—16th century—History and criticism. | Music—England—17th century—History and criticism. Classification: LCC ML286.2 .A98 2020 | DDC 780.942/0903—dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019045110 ♾ This paper meets the requirements of ANSI/NISO Z39.48-­1992 (Permanence of Paper).

For Tony, who helps me keep everything in perspective

Contents

Introduction��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 1 1. Praise, Blame, and Persuasion: “Of Musicke by Way of Disputation” ���������� 7 Praise and Dispraise (of Music): Discourse, Dialectic, Disputation������ Knowledge of Music “by Witt and Understanding”���������������������������������� Reading as Creative Process: Toward “Places of Invention” ������������������� Constructing Arguments ������������������������������������������������������������������������������� Materials for Discourse ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������

10 19 25 33 36

2. Debating Godly Music: Sober and Lawful Christian Use���������������������������� 41 “Musica, serva Dei”: (Textual) Places for God’s Handmaid��������������������� Music to the Praise and Glory of God: “A Methodicall Gathering Together of Authorities” ��������������������������������������������������������������������������� Anxieties of Aurality and Homonymies of Love���������������������������������������� Codetta: The Prosecution Rests �������������������������������������������������������������������

44 53 67 85

3. Harmony, Number, and Proportion��������������������������������������������������������������� 89 Art and Science Abstracted from Bodies���������������������������������������������������� 91 Between Sense and Intellect: Music as Conceptual Tool ������������������������ 98 “The Worlds Musicke” ���������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 106 “A Simbolisme between the Elements”: (Re)appropriation across Domains������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 114

“Profound Contemplation of Secret Things”: Magic, Occult Doctrines, and Music ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 127 Hidden Harmonies of Earth and Heaven: Alchemy and Astrology������ 136 “Divine Consent”: Holy Matrimony as Harmony�������������������������������������� 147 4. To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind��������������������������������������������������������� 155 Explaining Musical Experience������������������������������������������������������������������� 160 Sound, Soul, and Sense ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 170 To Captivate the Mind: Music and Interior Process �������������������������������� 193 5. “Comfortable . . . in Sicknes and in Health”: Music to Temper Self and Surroundings �������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 217 Music and Medicine ��������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 221 Music “to Preserve the Health” �������������������������������������������������������������������� 225 Music and the Humors: Balancing the Self������������������������������������������������ 237 Beyond Black Bile: Sorrow, Grief, and Musical Remediation �������������� 247 Acknowledgments����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 269 Notes ����������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 271 Selected Bibliography������������������������������������������������������������������������������������� 331 Index������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������������ 373

Introduction

Patience exceedeth knowledge, & musick begetteth patience.1

In 1597, six landmarks of early modern English music first appeared from London printer Peter Short, among them John Dowland’s First Booke of Songes or Ayres, Antony Holborne’s The Cittharn Schoole, and Thomas Morley’s Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke.2 The same year, other London printers issued quartos of William Shakespeare’s Richard II and Romeo and Juliet and the premier edition of Francis Bacon’s Essays. Each of these references music in a different way.3 All but forgotten by modern scholars is another mass-­market tome from the same city and year, intended, like Richard II, to be sold at one of the many bookstalls around St. Paul’s: Politeuphuia. Wits Common wealth by stationer, bookbinder, and bookseller Nicholas Ling (fl. 1580–1607). This small, duodecimo-­size volume of 277 pages is a collection of proverbs, aphorisms, and other sententiae organized along the commonplace model by which writers and orators collected incisive snippets of information by topic for future speech and writing. Ling is obscure enough to be omitted from the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, and, in contrast to these other nine books, Politeuphuia remains only of historical interest. Yet it proved most popular at the time, going through dozens of editions between 1598 and 1722, thirteen already by 1612. It also inspired an entire series of pocket-­size anthologies of wise sayings on culturally significant topics, including music.4 Ling’s original epistle “To the Reader” emphasizes that the book’s contents, gathered into “certaine heads or places,” will not only assist eloquent persuasion and civil conversation but provide moral edification and something resembling physiological sustenance as it moves from authorial pen to recipient’s ear to interior faculties. Its first revised edition is even 1

2  Introduction

clearer about the nutritive, transformative power of its contents.5 Its emphasis on aurality, sociability, bodily gesture, and self-­improvement provides commonality with Short’s musical imprints. More importantly, the varied information under its heading “Of Musicke,” some of which is reiterated in Dowland’s book and Shakespeare’s plays, might help a reader better understand, and comment on, the prefatory material to utilitarian music books or musical references in other sorts of works. It could also enable the kind of formulaic debate described near the start of Morley’s treatise.6 Both from the Ears and Mind considers music through points of contact and divergence between works such as these ten and a plethora of others from roughly a century either side. These items circulated in manuscript and print, with and without complementary visual illustrations or musical notation. They belong to such contrasting fields as architecture, arithmetic, emblematics, moral philosophy, poetics, travel, and zoology. The result is new understanding of the breadth and depth to which music permeated intellectual endeavors during the Tudor and Stuart eras. Music was both art and science. It had a historical place in many human enterprises, and it inhabited the fluid conceptual space between abstraction and concretion. Music was ontologically mysterious yet manifestly made, intangible but produced and received by sensory means. Its effects lingered when it stopped. It was at best a slippery signifier but an easily comprehensible means to link otherwise incongruous constructs and model dynamical systems or explain unities of discrete elements. These apparent contradictions, all reiterated in sententiae such as Ling pre­sents, enabled music to inhabit the liminal spaces between literal and metaphorical, mental and physical, and manifest and mysterious categories. To speak or write of music became code to consider other things as well as the art itself. Many took to heart what Ling and others pre­sent as a commonplace—that music embraces all disciplines—and, whether investigating a single topic or creating compendia of general knowledge, truly virtuosic wits often touched on music. The subject thus stood at the center, not the periphery, of the early modern English intellectual enterprise. Yet no matter how esoteric such discussions became, there always remains something of music’s audibility and potential for bodily pleasure and transfiguration. This book began decades ago, when it became evident that music was referenced in an unexpectedly wide range of early modern English material. Recognition that what we would consider extramusical sources can deepen understanding of music and how it inflected other disciplines in early modern England was nothing new. As early as 1955, John H. Long observed in context of Shakespearean drama that “Elizabethan stage music faithfully re-

Introduction  3

flected the part played by music in the society of the period.” Therefore it “seemed important to consider the many references to music made in representative selections from the nondramatic literature of the Elizabethans.”7 Around that time, Gretchen Ludke Finney and John Hollander did the same for lyric poetry from generations before through after Shakespeare.8 More recent investigations of similar topics have led to deeper understanding that, especially in Shakespeare’s day, music was conceptually more vast than it has since become. And it extended well beyond entertainment or poetic conceit.9 Such recognition also paved the way for studies that explain literary and performative works in relation to music and sound more generally by drawing on wider bodies of primary material—including anatomy, acoustics, and humoral medicine—by scholars such as Gina Bloom, Wes Folkerth, Bruce Smith, and Amanda Eubanks Winkler.10 Although my book engages with material included in such studies, its focus is neither drama nor other language arts. It cuts through these as it follows intellectual trajectories about music across disciplinary boundaries. It became clear early in my research that music occupied a predictable place in writings on education and conduct of life broadly construed. The same is true of those touching all seven ancient liberal studies, offshoots such as natural philosophy and geography, and the divinity (and its relative, mythography), for which, as we shall see in chapter 3, the liberal arts or sciences were considered preparative. Christopher Marsh’s Music and Society in Early Modern England incorporates material from the former, as well as enumerating powers attributed to music, as the most thorough study to date of music in sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century English popular culture. Like his intellectual predecessor, William Chappell, Marsh emphasizes quotidian musical activities and oral cultures, whereas I foreground elite learning and written transmission.11 Nonetheless, some core concerns about music were widely shared. And music itself slipped as easily as its conceptual significance between social groups and spaces. Primary sources in geometry and alchemy pointed me toward numerology and magic just as Gary Tomlinson was finishing his seminal study of music in Renaissance magic and Penelope Gouk beginning hers on music, science, and natural magic in seventeenth-­century England. The middle chapter of this book is beholden to both and to Brian Copenhaver’s magisterial work on magic, the last two to Gouk’s pioneering investigations of sound and musical healing.12 My book shows that even the most hidden harmonies and profoundly secret cosmic musics relied on understanding of the audible sort. Furthermore, it becomes clear that the kind of snipping and reconfiguration

4  Introduction

of key information encouraged by inherited models of learning and books like Ling’s brought numerically based disciplines into juxtaposition with literary and visual modes of expression, with medicine, and with theology. Music served as a central point of contact. Recent histories of science have emphasized that early modern science and magic are sometimes impossible to tease apart and that premodern concepts of religio and scientia were founded on discontiguous, but not incompatible, habits of mind.13 Here, too, music and musical terminology served as connectors even as meanings and points of origination diverged. Throughout this book, similar information, sometimes presented in virtually identical words, is brought to bear on different contexts or even rival epistemologies; writers claim and reclaim it for their own purposes, reminding us that early modern ideas of authorship and authority were less fixed than they have since become.14 There is also increasing tension between the scholastic inheritance that privileged written authority and new programs of empiricist learning based on direct sensory observation, especially during the seventeenth century. Music, too, crosses these barriers and was applied to different ends by contrasting communities of discourse and practice. Both from the Ears and Mind begins by locating discussions of music among the arts of persuasive speech and the classical imperative to precede embodied engagement with topical discourse. To speak of music and to perform it were fundamentally separate even if they sometimes overlapped. The former took precedence among the truly learned and was no less creative or bound by convention. The first chapter surveys verbal genres from which readers could learn core information about music and potentially generate their own timely arguments. Chapter 2 extends rhetorical and dialectical engagement with music into debates over appropriate use in Christian worship, meditation, and the moral life. Beyond predictable sectarian lines, and rival interlocutors who recontextualized the same inherited wisdom about music and the sacred, stand some surprising alliances, hints of cross-­confessional musical tourism, and occasionally uneasy mergers of sacred and secular gestures and genres. Chapter 3 builds on tensions between bodily and spiritual ways of knowing music by considering concepts of harmony, number, and proportion from the Pythagorean heritage through increasingly empirical investigations into the nature and significance of occult musics. Metaphor and metaphysics pivot around perceptible music, and visual signifiers of acoustic phenomena signpost secret knowledge for those who could interpret them. Chapter 4 addresses ways in which music was thought to be perceived and to influence the human organism, social collectives, and connections between

Introduction  5

individuals and their surroundings. The kinds of quantitative underpinnings discussed in chapter 3 help demonstrate the affective powers of music and ways in which it could help model as well as influence cognition and consciousness. Chapter 5 takes up the issue of music in human ecology, as a means to achieve and maintain equilibrium and remediation from internal bodily systems to localized environments. The same slipperiness that enabled music to signify other things also meant that in spite of some accord about the affective connotations of certain musical structures, the choice of music for personal maintenance, restoration, and to accompany routine salutary practices remained highly individual. Given the richness of primary material in this book, I have let many original voices speak for themselves. I have maintained original spelling and punctuation but have updated orthography to accord with modern practice. I have provided dates and occupations, when available, to help contextualize less familiar early modern figures. Unless otherwise noted, information comes from the Oxford Dictionary of National Biography or the Library of Congress. Some individuals remain so obscure that only their names survive.

CHAPTER ONE

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion “Of Musicke by Way of Disputation”

In 1589, London printer Thomas East published six separate parts in broadsheet of a song titled “A gratification unto Master John Case, for his learned booke, lately made in the praise of Musicke” (fig. 1.1, bassus part). The poet Thomas Watson, the leading English translator of Italian madrigal verse, provided the text. William Byrd, joint holder of the patent under which the piece was printed at a time of tremendous activity in the English music trade, contributed the music. This charming part-­song has received scant attention from modern scholars. Only two of its original broadsheets remain along with a copy of a third; the poem also survives in a manuscript verse miscellany.1 In fact, this “Gratification” has garnered most comment in the context of the long-­standing controversy surrounding authorship of the anonymous 1586 treatise The Praise of Musicke, for which the man to whom Watson addressed his poem was once a leading contender.2 The learned Oxford physician, Aristotelian philosopher, and former chorister John Case certainly praised music in his Apologia musices of 1588 and, to a lesser extent, in his Sphaera civitatis of the same year. Careful consideration has cast doubt on his authorship of the vernacular Praise, although Byrd and other contemporaries may have promulgated the presumption. All three treatises were printed and sold by Oxford bookseller Joseph Barnes, with whose ventures East had no professional connection.3 Byrd, Watson, and East’s collaborative product deserves another look in light of the rhetorical and dialectical engagement with music it shares with these three treatises and with a wide range of other items across media and communities of discourse. This “Gratification” is more than a tribute to a single author for a work in a contrasting genre and print format, or 7

8  Chapter One

Figure 1.1 William Byrd, “A gratification unto Master John Case,” bassus. The Bodleian Libraries, University of Oxford, MS Don.a.3 (3).

even a multimedia advertisement for an independently produced book. It is not simply a paean to music, which alone would connect it to an ancient tradition made modern at a time of renewed interest in the powers of the art. It is a means through which three men with vested interest in the mass-­market music business could profit from an increasingly widespread debate about the art and its place in contemporary English society. Its format as the cheapest and most ephemeral print commodity, often associated with timeliness and broad appeal, may relate to the perceived topicality and commercial potential of praising music in any medium. Reconstructed by Philip Brett from its three surviving parts, Byrd’s setting of Watson’s text is typical of English part-­song from the late sixteenth century. It is through-­composed and pays careful, but not unusual, attention to the accentuation and meaning of its words. It is predominantly syllabic with the limited vocal ranges that appeal to many sorts of singers, and it is polyphonic with ever-­changing texture to retain interest and continuous motion. The song’s rhythms mostly follow the idiosyncratic speech patterns of the English language. Here and there, the composer makes clever use of such conventional devices as melisma, word-­painting, suspension, and passing-­tone dissonance. For example, alternating treble statements hover purposefully “above the rest” of the lower voices (mm. 6–15). The cited “Scithian” is truly “barbarous” from an aesthetic and compositional perspective (mm. 26–35).

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  9

Each sphere turns gently in its own musical space (mm. 48–52), and the very name of “Marsia[s]” wants musical skill through its expression of that most dissonant harmonic interval, the tritone (m. 75).4 Perhaps more importantly, notes and words together draw attention to the suitability of music as a topic for the formal rhetorical exercise of praise and for location of the art between discourse and embodied practice. Especially in combination with Byrd’s notes, Watson’s text convinces the listener (or performer) of the correctness of his argument; to counter it literally opens an interlocutor to the charge of senseless barbarism. By drawing attention to a longer prose work through its own reiteration of a few well-­known Western anecdotes on music and by the first-­person immediacy of each singer’s individual voice, the piece invites personal engagement not only with Case’s “learned booke” but also with its topic. Byrd’s clever madrigalisms may also remind the listener that the combination of word, music, and especially wit were believed to engage the senses and activate the passions that bridged the faculties of sensation and intellect. Like countless other learned Elizabethans, Byrd, Case, Watson, and the author of The Praise of Musicke were thoroughly steeped in a tradition of formulaic argument about music as familiar to the literate classes as their own schoolbooks. It was as old as other rhetorical traditions they revered. It was also as fresh and urgent as the social and religious changes that influenced current musical practice. This stylized topical verbal exercise reached from learned Latin treatises through vernacular sermons to emblem books to text-­ only broadsides to conduct manuals to at least one set of manuscript music partbooks.5 Written or spoken for any purpose and on any subject, words suggested not only sonority but also conviction for a culture still steeped in oral/ aural learning. “Wordes are voyces framed with hart and toung, uttering the thoughtes of the mynde,” explains an early vernacular Art of Reason.6 Whether intended to be set to notes or to stand alone, words about music added an intellectual dimension to the art. They distanced it from sensory pleasure and manual labor. They also brought it into closer contact with the pristine arts of contemplation, the ancient privileging of musical discernment above performance, and the three liberal arts of verbal persuasion: grammar, dialectic, and especially rhetoric. Boethius’s authoritative De institutione musica, which remained the standard academic text on music through the early modern era, had not only divided (higher) speculative music from (lower) practical music. It also ranked practitioners, privileging those who had the capacity to judge performance above those who played, sang, or composed.7 Argument about music was both a preparative to such judgment and a way to dispose listeners favorably to specific performance practices and compositional styles. Such

10  Chapter One

argument was also a way to frame embodied skill with classical erudition and bridge the increasingly anachronistic gap between speculative and practical participation in music. In a much-­neglected passage, Byrd’s most famous pupil, Thomas Morley, pre­sents musical disputation ahead of sight singing in his Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke, which remained in continuous use from 1597 until after 1771. In the opening dialogue, Polymathes asks his friend Philomathes to “repeat some of the discourses which [he] had yester night at master Sophobulus his banket.” The latter replies not only that the topic of the symposium had been music but that one “wise and learned guest” had “fall[en] to discourse of Musicke,” at which point others joined in debate. It was only after this formal disputation that the host’s wife presented guests with partbooks from which to sing.8 Lodovico da Canossa, the great champion of music in the most widely circulating and influential conduct manual of the early modern period—Baldassarre Castiglione’s Il libro del cortegiano— not only outlines familiar arguments in support of music before prescribing a practical program for the ideal courtier; he also methodically confutes Gasparo Pallavicino’s carefully articulated case against such training.9 The 1598 English-­language version of Aristotle’s Politics titles book 8, chapter 5, “Of Musicke by way of disputation, and how children should learn it.” This brings the reader into the ancient philosopher’s recommended program of musical training only after properly debating the merits of the topic, exactly what we see in Castiglione’s and Morley’s dialogues.10 London’s Gresham College required from its foundation in 1597 that “The solemn musick lecture is to be read twice every week, in the manner following, viz., the theoretique part for half an hour, or thereabouts; and the practique by concent of voice or of instruments, for the rest of the hour.”11 In such ways, the ancient liberal-­arts tradition of music became an intellectual preparative to performance and aural judgment. The truly learned individual was expected to move between them.

Praise and Dispraise (of Music): Discourse, Dialectic, Disputation Watson’s text, Case’s Apologia, and The Praise of Musicke all belong to an ancient encomiastic tradition in which speakers (or writers) first emphasized the importance of music as a subject for the listener’s (or reader’s) attention and then praised its essence, significance, and effects. It was a topical subgenre of the classical encomium, a hybrid of overlapping rhetorical genres in-

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  11

tended to defend any person or topic the speaker deemed worthy of attention. “Praise nothing that is not commendable, nor dispraise aught that is praise worthy,” commands Edwardian and Elizabethan Gentleman of the Chapel Thomas Palfryeman (d. 1589) on the authority of Marcus Aurelius. In practice, the encomium often merged with the exordium, another laudatory genre in which the speaker disposes the audience favorably to the given topic. The encomium also overlapped with other rhetorical genres, most notably the Latin genus demonstrativum, which includes subcategories of both praise and blame.12 Music was only one potential focus of the generic rhetorical attack or defense; Watson’s verse reminds us that the choice of topic was open when he leaves “others [to] praise what seemes them best.” Music became an especially popular subject for praise and dispraise in sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­ century England when the art drew fire for its use in such contested venues as church, theater, and alehouse and in such increasingly controversial practices as May games and Morris dance. The musical focus of this kind of literary exercise, and conversely its influence on the circulation of music itself, has only begun to receive the scholarly attention it deserves.13 Representative examples crossed media into visual imagery and performable music and range in length from single broadsheets such as the parts of “A Gratification” to the 152 octavo-­size pages plus prefatory material of The Praise of Music. The adhortation and dehortation of music also came to engage a wider range of linguistic skills than rhetoric alone, especially as interlocutors “by way of disputation” made use of dialectical methods. Formal works in praise of music overlap with those that enumerate the powers of the art or describe its ancient significance. Both rely on a common stock of stories detailing past marvels and daily use in Greco-­Roman, biblical, and early Christian cultures. However, they belong to fundamentally distinct literary genres. From antiquity through the early modern era, commendations of music usually began with a history of the subject followed by an enumeration of current, often deplorable, conditions that have opened it to attack. They grabbed the reader’s or listener’s attention by deploying familiar anecdotes about the powers and importance of music and its proper practice. Many formal commendations are structured as responses to real or imagined detractors who denounce music in general or criticize some aspect of its current use, such as Watson’s statement that Case blamed “the senceles foole, & Barbarous Scithian, of our dayes” (emphasis mine) for any ill repute music had acquired by the late 1580s. Castiglione’s earlier Counte (Lewis of Canossa) takes the opposite rhetorical approach when he cuts off L(ord) Gaspar’s harsh critique of the art’s recreational use among noblemen in Thomas Hoby’s English trans-

12  Chapter One

lation of Il libro del cortegiano. “Speake it not,” he says firmly before promising to “enter into a large sea of the praise of Musicke, and call to rehearsal how much it hath always bene renowmed emong the[m] of old time.”14 Aristotle explains of the most ancient form of encomium that “Praise is the expression in words of the eminence of a man’s good qualities. . . . To praise a man is in one respect akin to urging a course of action.”15 Perhaps more importantly, he proclaims that “we must also take into account the nature of our particular audience when making a speech of praise.”16 The same became true of music. To praise or blame music was to urge a course of action by a specific audience left with the imperative to accept the speaker’s argument. The impassioned Praise of Musicke and Case’s more detached Apologia musices, though written from contrasting viewpoints and for different audiences, are roughly contemporaneous book-­length prose examples not only of the specifically musical encomium but the general literary form. Neither is a practical treatise for the would-­be musician nor a summation of knowledge for the historian-­critic. Neither is a work of philosophy or theology nor a comprehensive tract for students of the quadrivium of numerical arts that included music. However, both books acknowledge these facets of music, plus many others, in the sort of rhetorical collation dating back at least as far as Quintilian and with deeper roots in ancient Greek controversies.17 The vernacular Praise sets out from its title page to reiterate the civil and especially ecclesiastical importance of music by citing arguments borrowed from a wide range of classical and early Christian writers plus the sixteenth-­century English humanist Sir Thomas Elyot. The work sparkles with anecdotes from ancient myth and zoology. In the finest Reformation tradition, the author also pays homage to biblical authority whenever possible and appropriate. He gently emphasizes his own background as a performer and positions praxis, ancient and modern, at the heart of his work. In contrast, the Latin Apologia is a more esoteric document that reaffirms the capacities of music to moderate all aspects of a universe pulsing with secret energies. Case hovers between the Boethian liberal-­arts tradition of music and his era’s renewed interest in the marvelous. His is a more contemplative and more deeply intellectual inquiry into the divine gift of music. His Apologia relies on many of the same well-­known classical and Christian sources as the vernacular Praise plus additional ancient Romans and such more recent Continental occult philosophers as Marsilio Ficino and Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim. For Case, church usage and mythological wonder are less important than the meaning and operation of harmony and proportion through sound. However, The Praise of Music and the Apologia musices share a common dialectic. Both spe-

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  13

cifically advance ideas about music against a wide range of presumed detractors, some of whose arguments are addressed directly. Both also unify the vocabularies of speculation and practice and pre­sent the history of the art and science to support current use. As these contrasting expositions demonstrate, early modern English thinkers privileged received wisdom above skilled practice even in what we now consider performing arts or arts criticism. Virtually all liberal-­arts subjects were still taught by rote and imitation of written example. Music in its widest senses was no exception. During the sixteenth century, treatises on how to construct arguments proliferated as quickly as practical handbooks on specific subjects such as music. Thanks largely to the printing press, authors with a greater range of purposes were able to disseminate their views more widely and quickly than ever before, continually augmenting a common stock of ideas. Some disputants created dazzling displays of wit and skill, while others earnestly condemned or vindicated perceived threats to public order. Music loaned itself particularly well to disputation because of the profusion of ancient models pro and contra. Furthermore, through its position in the ancient mathematical quadrivium and connection through language to the trivium, intellectual inquiry into music potentially touched on all topics. “Because Musicke dothe comprehende al disciplines . . . Musicke cannot be entreated without all disciplines,” explains Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim with Platonic authority in James Sanford’s English translation of his De incertitudine & vanitate scientiarum et artum.18 Any comprehensive discussion of the artes liberales for any purpose therefore had to reserve a place for music in order to showcase the interlocutor’s thoroughness and breadth of learning. Like the more familiar querelle des femmes, the debate over music had a long-­standing association with ethics and the history of Christian doctrine. It likewise reached its apotheosis, especially in England, during the late sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries.19 Fifteenth-­century participants had renewed the topic’s contemporary appeal by adding reference to their era’s most controversial musical practices, especially polyphony in sacred context.20 This provided precedent for disputants from all confessional perspectives during the succeeding century to mingle ancient ideas of the worth of music with increasingly urgent contemporary examples of the art’s use and abuse, especially in religious or moral contexts. Either in such single-­topic contributions as The Praise of Musicke or more general warnings against dubious temporal pleasures such as Philip Stubbes’s (ca. 1555–­ca. 1610) The Anatomie of Abuses of 1583, the sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century attack or

14  Chapter One

defense of music could therefore generate a sense of social immediacy while still drawing on a familiar storehouse of well-­respected examples from past sages. To a fragmented set of subcultures that witnessed, among other relevant changes, a succession of official state religions, the steady growth of a market for printed works of music and musical instruction, the birth and later suppression of a public-­access theater tradition that relied on music, the growth of an experimental natural philosophy that included acoustics, and the ongoing reconsideration of the appropriate role and styles of music in Christian worship, personal investment in the condemnation or vindication of at least select aspects of music ran high.21 Nonetheless, it is a mistake to consider the formal discursive attack and defense of music as evidence of a calculated war against the art in England. For one thing, the literary subgenre had been established in antiquity and was practiced among patristic writers. And it found continued expression in such important Continental writings on music as Gioseffo Zarlino’s Istitutioni harmoniche of 1558.22 Many sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century English printed books of music, from instrumental self-­tutors to collections of lute songs, begin with formulaic reference to the ancient and ongoing approbation of their topic. To purchase music was therefore also to purchase a few choice lines in its favor to aid the would-­be musician or learned conversationalist with discourse. This convention also enabled those who read the book as laid out to follow established protocol for beginning a subject: approach it first through disputation and only then through bodily engagement. A number of manuscript miscellanies such as the one in which Watson’s text appears include a poem or set of statements praising music. Works on other topics, such as Stubbes’s Anatomie of Abuses, also found brief but conventional place for pithy words on music. Extended discussions of such contested musical venues as church, theater, tavern, or public space rarely fail to cite ancient authorities on the appropriate use of music in similar settings. Medical manuals and moral philosophies found room for a few venerable sententiae on the value of music. So many participated in what became a formulaic means to sell all manner of books and ideologies that musician-­soldier Captain Tobias Hume could remark in his First Part of Ayres of 1605 that “To prayse Musicke, were to say, the Sunne is bright.”23 Similarly, Thomas Ford gently reminds readers of the dedication of his 1607 Musicke of Sundrie Kindes that his purpose was to pre­sent performable musical works. “I shall not neede to make an Apologie in defence of these musickes,” says Ford, “since none are so much in request nor more generally received then of these kindes.”24 As early as 1571 Thomas Whythorne tells us on the title page of his Songes, for five voyces that

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  15

the contents are for singers and the “disposition or delite of the hearers.” He added later that the contents were “set to be sung and not read.” Therefore, in only one of his five partbooks, he tells us, did he include a “preamble or preface” to explain that “What I cowld write in Musicks prays, I will at this time stay / And let you see what one famows, of that science doth say” before giving his reader Walter Haddon’s Latin poem in commendation of the art. He saves his own classically constructed praise of music for readers—not singers—in his later manuscript autobiography.25 The praise or blame of music was so widespread and so diverse that to associate it with any specific set of social agendas, or to see it merely as a rhetorical or poetic exercise, is to underestimate its reach and significance. From antiquity through the early modern era, Western intellectual traditions were built on continuous reinterpretation and reapplication of contradictory materials from evidently irreconcilable sources.26 The dialectical understanding of music—with its tangled biblical, classical, and early Christian roots; its multiplicity of ritual uses; and its complex relationship to ever-­changing sociocultural institutions—was no exception. English recusant priest and religious controversialist Thomas Wright (ca.1561–1623) reminds readers that the power of music was that of the sword: double edged, dependent on the wielder’s intent, and metamorphically transmissible through words.27 Such perspectives reveal not only cultural attitudes toward music but, more immediately, its place in public discourse. Contrary to long-­standing assumption, not one of the English interlocutors with a genuine agenda of social or religious reform was categorically opposed to music or supportive of all current practice. The art itself was never in danger; there was no coordinated “anti-­music movement.”28 With the exception of a few professional men of war, perhaps borrowing their arguments from Gasparo Pallavicino’s succinct iteration in Castiglione’s manual of courtly conduct, it was always somebody else who had no use for music.29 Since the Judeo-­Christian tradition emphasized the divine origins of the art, proper practice brought one closer to all things heavenly, which none dared deny. Even the most lurid warnings against the evil effects of music make exception for godly psalms or the courageous music of inspiration in the right times and places. As The Praise of Musicke points out most directly, to argue against music was to “disgrace” Saints Jerome, Ambrose, Augustine, Basil, Gregory, “and the holy Fathers of the primitive Church.”30 Not even the most pious reformer dared do so as long as the art was used soberly and in appropriate context.31 Nor did any early modern intellectual have the hubris to oppose the most revered philosophers of ancient Greece or the greatest Roman orators. The exercise was at least as

16  Chapter One

much about virtuosic recombination of long-­standing arguments as the past and present value and powers of music. Opposite those who warned of music’s deleterious effects but found place to praise its divine origins and wholesome spiritual effects stood men whose livelihoods depended on its widespread acceptance and use. They still qualified their arguments. Even the most ardent defenders of the art were loath to spring to its universal defense in an era when some occupational musicians were regarded with grave moral suspicion and state and ecclesiastical legislation was directed against independent musical contractors outside of the patronage system.32 Literate supporters of art music, particularly those involved with the increasingly lucrative industry of music printing and the creation of mass-­market self-­instructional manuals, positioned themselves rhetorically into competition with the followers of “those common kinde Practitioners, (truly ycleped Minstrells).”33 They were hard pressed to justify any form of musical practice that might undermine their own or that might draw fire from legislative bodies or guardians of public morals. By virtue of their medium of expression and by paraphrasing metaphors familiar to the educated elite, such interlocutors immediately aligned themselves with wealthy and influential recreational musicians. Evocation of powerful patronage extended the arguments further. The dedication of Thomas Weelkes’s Balletts and Madrigals to Five Voyces “to the right worshipful Master Edward Darcye Esquier, groome of her majesties privie chamber” gives a typical sense of the defense of notated art music against its unjust detractors on one hand and against less elite practitioners on the other. Right worshipful, it is no small comfort the Musicke professors conceive, when they consider the ever misdeeming multitude to brand them with infamy, whom the Honorable spirits have always honored: and although povertie hath debarred them their fellow arts mens companie, yet nature hath set their better part at libertie, to delight them that love Musicke. So many worthy men dayly labouring to call home againe the banished Philomele, whose purest blood the impure Minstralsie hath stained, I must presume to remember one of your worships least labours . . . the entertaining into your service the least proficient in Musicke, who with all dutifull observancie, humbly commend my poore labours to your worships protection.34

Such careful deflections of antimusical sentiments onto a less literate body of independent musical contractors left passionate reformers such as Stubbes free to rave unchecked against the looseness, licentiousness, lewdness, and

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  17

incontinence of those “bawdy parasites” known as “minstrelles” who ranged the countryside and haunted taverns, alehouses, “and other publique assemblies.”35 Similarly, Caroline pamphleteer and lawyer William Prynne (1600– 1669) could paraphrase St. Basil against the lure of the gorgeous lute-­playing seductress for a culture with a deep-­seated ambivalence about performance by women, especially of secular works in public places. Yet, in the same argument, he firmly supports women’s singing of psalms at home.36 The Praise of Musicke skillfully anticipates and parries every potential argument against its subject but still concedes that incompetent performance and “whatsoever is amisse in this or that lewd musician” may well lead to contempt for the art.37 As contemporary as some arguments sound, even the most grandiloquent critiques of music’s detrimental influence and the equally passionate vindications opposite them are mostly derived from earlier sources. Paradoxically, the strongest statements made in the service of actual musical practice, particularly in public venues, tend most to cite received wisdom and revered sages. The reformed playwright and future preacher Stephen Gosson (1554– 1625), for instance, borrows his most flamboyant condemnation of theatrical music and its emasculating effects from the pseudo-­Plutarchian De musica, a favorite source for his era’s musical anecdotes. The fact that a respected ancient authority had observed the sort of deleterious affective response to his theatrical music as Gosson recognized in Elizabethan England is more important than historical differences between sound, space, or performance practice. Both cases also foreground tensions between “ancient” and “modern” traditions. Plutarch complayneth, that ignorant men, not knowing the majestie of auncient musicke, abuse both the eares of the people, & the art it selfe: w[ith] bringing sweet consortes into Theaters, w[hich] rather effeminate the minde, as prickes unto vice, then procure amendment of maners as spurres to vertue.38

Arguing against the (unnamed) prosecution, The Praise of Musicke, the lengthiest and perhaps most ardent defense of music of the Tudor dynasty, is almost entirely derivative and cites an impressive range of classical and historic Christian authorities. Page after page of its advocacy of music in current civic and ecclesiastical rites showcase in text and in the margins a range of names familiar from any schoolboy’s commonplace collection: Athanasius, Augustine, Clement of Alexandria, Justin Martyr, Juvenal, Pliny, Plutarch, to name only a few. The book’s chapter 3, “The Suavitie of Musicke,”

18  Chapter One

complete with its own marginal citations of the likes of Aristotle, Cicero, and Virgil, is substantially an uncredited translation from Ferrarese scholar Lilio Gregorio Giraldi’s 1545 Historiae poetarum tam Graecorum quam Latinorum.39 It is therefore with the greatest and most unimpeachable authority, and on the basis of an impressive range of literary models, that the writer makes his argument. His own rhetorical style and use of supporting evidence dare his tacit opponent to contradict not himself but the words of experts across miles and millennia. In this Praise, as in all similarly constructed works, the sheer virtuosity and encyclopedic display of learning becomes at least as crucial as the argument itself. Yet by its very nature as a work of literary prose, the book inhabits an intellectual space paradoxically distinct from musical sound and corporeal judgment. Practicing musicians who broached the medium of print often show self-­ conscious awareness that readers expected prefatory compilations of textual learning, as did Whythorne in his 1571 collection. Four years later, in a work aimed at a more elite audience, Thomas Tallis and William Byrd cleverly deflect this expectation. They explain to the reader of their monumental Cantiones, quae ab argomento sacrae vocantur why they need not display the authoritative “arguments and experience” they clearly know how to gather. In their dedication “to the most serene Prince Elizabeth, by the grace of God Queen of England,” they demonstrate more emphatically than Whythorne had that the purpose of their volume is not to argue about the importance of music but to offer performable works to the judgment of a skilled practitioner: If it were a matter for us, Most Serene Prince, either with those who, because they do not know the art of Music, do not approve of it, or with those who, lacking judgmement derived from the art, measure its outstanding excellence by the admirable effect of sounds, we would call upon philosophers, mathematicians, architects of public affairs, who with arguments and experience would wring from the most senseless enemy of the name of Music [an admission that] its use was necessary to public affairs; we would cite poets and certain allegorically teaching physicians, who among those men, unlearned indeed . . . would easily assent that there was no other art that could contend with it for primacy. But as the matter is practiced by your Majesty, who have . . . always so royally applied yourself that in it now you have made yourself outstandingly proficient . . . it will be enough to find peace of mind in your knowledge and judgement alone and not to use very many arguments for producing confidence in the matter.40

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  19

“I doe not studie Eloquence, or professe Musicke,” snaps Hume more straightforwardly as he offers his compositions to his “understanding Reader” thirty years later. He emphasizes that the works are his own inventions, “which if thou dost dislike, let me see thine.”41 Morley likewise explains that he has compiled a vernacular treatise on practical music in spite of lesser display of learning because “of all other things [it] hath beene in writing least knowen to our countrimen, and most in practise.”42 These statements remind us that, even before the turn of the seventeenth century, the evident tension between embodied musical praxis and the polished eloquence of the musical dialectician had largely become categorical. Both forms of musicianship belonged to a culture steeped in sound and musical gesture and whose educational programs were founded on the transmission of authority from one generation to the next by intellectual and manual means. The same privileged upbringing that provided access to the words of Aristotle and St. Athanasius also included music heard and performed.43 The commonplaces of musical parlance included reference to sound and appropriate usage as well as to the arcane powers of musica speculativa. Before the end of the sixteenth century, at least one learned recreational musician, Robert Dow (1552–1588), Fellow of Laws at All Souls College, Oxford, had bridged the gap in his personal collection of music materials. Each partbook of his manuscript collection of motets, anthems, consort songs, and untexted music begins with the same Latin poem in praise of music by Haddon, a former president of Magdalen College, Oxford, as Whythorne included in his printed collection of songs. Each of Dow’s partbooks also includes a sprinkling of sententious sayings about music throughout its motet sections. By such means, users of the books would have been able to participate in a multimedia game of wit and skill as well as a multisensory dialectic of music seen, heard, debated, and ­performed.44

Knowledge of Music “ by Witt and Understanding ” It is perhaps Thomas Ravenscroft, whose career brought him into contact with the controversial musical worlds of church, theater, and London cityscape, who most succinctly summarizes the conventional division between ways of knowing music: to the practicing musician belongs direct apprehension of the art by sound, ear, and gesture, with emphasis on “how to singe skilfully.” To the intellectual speculator belongs the “knowledge of [musi-

20  Chapter One

cal] thinges (not by sound) but by judgment: not by eare or hearing: but by witt and understanding.”45 The latter kind of music, claims the university-­ educated former cathedral chorister, requires “the Lattin tongue” as its prerequisite. But with that language, he tells his paradoxically vernacular reader, the musician may easily participate in such discourse. For Ravenscroft, then, it is language—the international language of liberal-­arts education for over a millennium—that provides access to the branch of music founded originally on the calculation of numeric intervals but that now implicitly includes “judgment, witt and understanding” more generally. In contrast, says he, one needs direct physical immersion in “sownds and agreeable harmonye” (and perhaps initiation in a unique technical language and form of specialized notation that Ravenscroft provides) in order to become proficient in musical practice.46 One division of music, then, speaks first to the embodied ear, the other to the cognitive faculties. On Aristotelian authority, the human being was believed to share with animals the sensible soul that enabled bodily perception and caused “men, and unreasonable creatures of what kind soever, [to] be allured and mitigated with musicke.”47 In contrast, the rational soul, seat of the highest faculties of cognition and of judgment, was considered God’s unique gift to his favored creature.48 By Ravenscroft’s day, a number of thinkers, particularly in physically grounded fields, had begun to question the traditional antithesis between contemplation and praxis as well as the inseparability of natural philosophy from faith. With its capacities to span physics and metaphysics, inherited wisdom and direct observation, music stood at the center of the enterprise to reconsider relationships between these ideas and faculties and to forge new ones. No later than the turn of the sixteenth century, recipients of Cambridge and Oxford degrees in music had generated compositions that elided—especially between paper, ink, and audible performance—hard divisions between practice and speculation. Yet many thinkers still held that the wisest and most learned persons eschewed sensuality to labor in the pristine world of meditation. Even as new programs of natural philosophy and the burgeoning of what later became known as science began to redefine the link between contemplation and praxis—even as Dow, Byrd, Tallis, and any number of composers actually connected them in music through a variety of rhetorical and practical strategies—many scholars maintained, at least in writing, the ancient distinction between forms of knowledge.49 Early modern readers and writers had inherited from such classical Neoplatonists as Philo and Boethius the concept that the highest forms of music were silent and eternal. Music heard, music performed, music embodied

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  21

belonged to the Aristotelian program of education and was increasingly essential to the literate classes of the early modern era. Nonetheless, writers from Castiglione through Ravenscroft and Hume demonstrate that the most learned aspects of music remained contemplative and discursive. Since antiquity, unheard musics had been subsumed under the most deeply reflective disciplines such as natural and moral philosophy, theology, and metaphysics. Textually transmitted, they stood apart from the mechanical knowledge of the performer or craftsman. The widespread importance of inaudible musics faded only gradually during the early modern era, metamorphosing into literary metaphor and conceptual tools for the mathematical sciences. Traditional programs to train the intellect began with language and definition, not with the corporeality of hands-­on learning or judgment by ear.50 Where thought was deemed superior to action, music was ideally severed from the body and transmitted through words. The Jesuit Thomas Wright acknowledges the value of sensory objects, including music, in the highest forms of contemplation. Nonetheless, he admits that this sensuall delight [of music] appertaineth more to younglings in devotion, than grave, perfit, and mortified men: so it serveth them as a sensuall object, to ascend to God in spirit, to contemplate his sweetnesse, blessednesse, and eternal felicitie, and thereby contemne this world so full of vanitie and miserie: but those, who are more elevated to God by reason, than by sence[,] ascend to him by serious meditations, deepe considerations, and exact penetrations of his word, his majestie, attributes, and perfections.51

Here, even a member of a Roman Catholic order sympathetic to sensory power in matters devotional separates word from sound at the boundary between contemplation and sensation. Wright reminds readers that the delights of audible, embodied music were so strongly associated with immaturity that they stood among its signifiers. “Grave, perfit, and mortified men”—and those on their way to becoming them—required no earthly sweetness on their spiritual journey. The widespread and multifarious intellectual tension between liberal and mechanical forms of music was perhaps most evident in a university curriculum that still provided formal musical instruction through the faculty of mathematics but dismissed interested students to private tutors to learn more practical performance skills.52 It also contributed to the written condemnation of orally transmitted musics and their practitioners. This sort of tension between forms of musical erudition led to a dialectic

22  Chapter One

between contrasting forms of a single art and science, one associated with textual learning, the other with sensual knowing. “As for the methode of the booke,” begins Morley “to the curteous Reader” of his no-­nonsense introduction to practical music, although it be not such as may in every point satisfie the curiositie of Dichotomistes: yet it is such as I thought most convenient for the capacitie of the learner. . . . And for the definition, division, partes, and kindes of Musicke, I have omitted them as things onely serving to content the learned, and not for the instruction of the ignorant.53

Thus he dismisses the reader who expects disputation and moves directly to his agenda to provide useful instruction for the proper creation and judgment of audible music. In contrast but to similar ends, Ravenscroft’s printed treatise on practical music opens with a learned “Apology” that immediately hooks the reader with the most famously salacious quotation from [pseudo-­] Plutarch’s De Musica, in which the poet Pherecrates pre­sents the female-­ bodied form of Music “piteously scourged and mangled” by those who have abused her ancient purity through their decadent practices. Having shown his classical erudition on his general topic and demonstrated that the music of his era has become as degenerate as Plutarch purportedly described for ancient Rome, Ravenscroft demands in the manner of an academic debate that the “Courteous Reader” find “Reason and Authority for [his] Assertions” and to “neither misconstrue [him], nor condemne [him] without better Reason, Proofe and Authority.”54 Only then does he proceed to the performable music of his own day and to his primary purpose of showing the best and most comprehensive way to notate it. Calling on even older authority to support his argument against the sort of practical music Ravenscroft anthologizes, Gosson declares that “Pythagoras . . . condemnes them for fooles, that judge Musicke by sound and eare.” The Elizabethan polemicist then commands of his reader, of whom he presumes no particular interest in learning how to write, sing, or judge current music, that “If you will bee good Scholers, and profite well in the Arte of Musike, shut your fidels in their cases” and attend to realms beyond sensory cognition.55 Gosson’s early education at Canterbury Cathedral school undoubtedly brought him into contact with musical performance even as Morley was far from ignorant of methodus and discourse. The former does support in his self-­ styled “plesant invective” the uses of audible music laid out in classical ac-

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  23

counts of courtly entertainment, spiritual and physical healing, and military order.56 In contrast, his diatribe “against Poets, Pipers, Plaiers, Jesters, and such like Caterpillars of a Co[m]monwealth” carefully positions judgment, wit, understanding, and the Latin intellectual inheritance above sound, ear, and the clumsy gestures of the body.57 His argument against these destructive pests belongs to the prevailing genre of words on music before the civil war, a stylized species of verbal reflection and wit. In the same manner as an emblem or a book of secrets, which spoke on different levels to the more or less erudite, Gosson’s rhetoric conceals hidden references for the knowing reader. The passage that begins above, for example, draws discursive substance from the denunciation of worldly pleasures in book 3 of Boethius’s much-­loved De consolationae philosophiae.58 Nonetheless, in contrast to Ravenscroft and Case, Gosson finds no impediment in his native tongue for expressing such ideas. There has been a great deal of disagreement over the depth and breadth of Latin learning in Gosson’s and Ravenscroft’s England.59 The most erudite readers and writers, and those who wished to reach an international community of scholars, chose Latin. Like the university-­educated Morley and Ravenscroft, who had presumably first learned Latin as choristers, many simply chose to address a vernacular audience. By the late sixteenth century there had been a shift in educational customs and the written transmission of culture. Literacy increased dramatically during the century, and nine of every ten books printed in England were vernacular.60 Elizabethan gentlemen (and sometimes their sisters) were likely to be familiar with learned books, and the men would have probably traveled on the Continent. Print culture, the Reformation, and other shifts in learning and its uses enabled many with basic literacy in their own tongue to participate in what had previously been the province of an intellectual elite. A significant number of readers had recourse to content Ravenscroft implies was inaccessible without Latin.61 In fact, the earliest extant exemplar of a musical encomium printed in England is a rhyming vernacular broadside from the early 1560s—a cheap and relatively ephemeral mass-­produced product like Byrd, Watson, and East’s later “Gratification”—titled A commendation of Musicke, And a confutation of them which disprayse it. It is attributed to one Nicholas Whight, possibly the Nicholas White who entered Lincoln’s Inn in 1552 and was called to the bar in 1558.62 Such important sources of musical information as Aristotle’s Politiques, Augustine’s Confessions, Castiglione’s Book of the Courtyer, and the pseudo-­ Plutarchian De musica, not to mention the Bible, became available in English

24  Chapter One

editions by the reign of James I.63 The international book trade further enabled writers, from the authors of A commendation of Musicke and The Praise of Musicke to poet and playwright Ben Jonson, to recast the latest Continental ideas in their native language. The proliferation of vernacular collections of sententiae, culled from across time and place and alphabetically arranged according to the commonplace model by the likes of soldier and historian Thomas Gainesford (1566–1624) and prose writer and translator Francis Meres (1565/66–1647), further helped real-­life would-­be gentlemen such as Morley’s fictitious Philomathes to argue successfully on musical grounds.64 Just as one could learn the basics of musical cadence and phrase structure from notated examples in Morley’s A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke, one could turn to the place of music or singing in compilations by stationer and bookseller Ling or composer and writer John Marbeck (or Merbecke, ca. 1505–­ca. 1585) to learn useful, time-­tested arguments pro and contra: two thousand years of diverse facts and opinions about music distilled into succinctly memorizable statements. Even more simply, one could turn to the introductory material to practical music books from Thomas Robinson’s The Schoole of Musicke to Thomas Ravenscroft’s A Briefe Discourse of the true (but neglected) Use of Charact’ring the Degrees to learn a few useful arguments.65 Ravenscroft specifically addresses readers before performers in the dedication to his first collection of simple vernacular part-­songs “To the Well Disposed to Reade, and to the merry disposed to Sing.”66 Complementarily, “the ground and use of Musicke, and wherein [it doth] consist” is explained in dual-­language format (Latin and English) in such composite rhetorical manuals as poet William Basse’s (ca. 1583–1653?) Helpe to Discourse.67 By the end of the sixteenth century, command of Latin was no longer necessary for the display of musical judgment, wit, or understanding. The first Gresham Professor of Music was specifically permitted to deliver his twice-­weekly lectures on both the “theoretique” and “practique” of music in the vernacular “because at this time Mr. Doctor Bull is recommended to the place by the queen’s most excellent majesty, being not able to speak Latin, his lectures are permitted to be altogether in English.”68 His inaugural lecture from October 6, 1597 was printed for sale and circulation “As hee pronounced the same before divers Worshipfull persons, th’Aldermen & Commoners of the Citie of London, with a great Multitude of other people.”69 At least some “things onely serving to content the learned” had become available to any reader if not also “a great multitude of other people” who could hear them spoken.

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  25

Reading as Creative Process: Toward “ Places of Invention ” The importance of reading as the first step toward the understanding and further construction of arguments in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries cannot be overestimated. Print media, the international book trade, and shifting models of education and translation made more material available to wider audiences. With the release of the Bible from Latin and from strict scholastic systems of exegesis came further incentive to read, along with new, sometimes clashing, reading publics.70 Patterns and processes of reading, like listening and studying examples in music, helped reinforce patterns of thinking and writing. Whether complete works by sages ancient and modern or collations of significant fragments organized in a multitude of ways, reading material provided the basis for learned discourse. Lectures, sermons, and erudite conversation all drew substance from prior written matter. Reading was an active and involved process for its early modern participants. It was a means of constructing the self, forging communal bonds, bridging material and conceptual realms, and generally making sense of the world.71 Surfaces for the inscription, circulation, and display of written work included not only print and manuscript books but also single sheets such as A commendation of Musicke or the parts of “A Gratification unto Master John Case,” wooden slats, interior walls, small slips of paper, clothing, personal adornments, utilitarian household objects such as cooking pots, food items, and, of course, students’ slates. All of these helped not only to circulate and organize reading matter more widely but also to encourage connections between reading, writing, speech, and virtuous action. They also helped elide distinctions between materials and uses of learning and between ways of storing information in mind and in physical space.72 The engaged reader brought a set of interpretive skills and personal agendas to the act of extracting meaning from text. Modern critics have emphasized the fragmentary process whereby readers “poach” information they find useful, actively mulling over material in context of their own intellectual and cultural expectations. Every act of reading thereby becomes an act of imagination and transformation, enabling unique oral or written communication.73 The same was true in earlier eras. Author and translator Thomas Blundeville (1522?–­1606?) notes in his guide for reading and writing exemplary moral narratives that the first step is to slowly extract useful information:

26  Chapter One

And to the intent that in our reading we omitte nothing worthie to be noted: we maybe not make over much haste, but rather reade leysurely and with Judgement, that remembering everye thing meete to be observed: wee may fitly applie the same to some good purpose, and make it to serve our tourne.74

This careful judgment of worth was of paramount importance. The sixteenth century continued to follow what Quintillian had emphasized centuries earlier: But to ferret out everything that has ever been said on the subject even by the most worthless of writers is a sign of tiresome pedantry or empty ostentsion. . . . The man who pores over every page even though it will be wholly unworthy of reading is capable of devoting his attention to the investigation of old wives’ tales.75

The properly engaged reader had to be selective of both source and content. He (or she) also needed an agenda, a frame on which to place gathered information. Nothing displayed a learned person’s moral compass or position within the highly complex social and intellectual hierarchy as clearly as arguments selected from choice authorities. As the sixteenth century approached its close, readers became less subservient to literal text and gradually moved from glossing to free quotation. By the end of the seventeenth century, the overt signs of literary borrowing had become minimal as emphasis had mostly shifted from received wisdom to a more original synthesis of reading matter.76 Again and again, early modern English books remind their readers of the power and status inherent in what was ultimately a boundless act of creativity. According to Francis Bacon, with echoes of the Platonic capacity to (pro)‑ create through the soul, the mind of the reader was both immortal and eternally fertile, alternately inseminating and gestating an infinite sequence of fresh ideas. “The images of men’s wits and knowledges remain in books, exempted from the wrong of time, and capable of perpetual renovation,” says he; “Neither are they fitly to be called images, because they generate still, and cast their seeds into the minds of others, provoking and causing infinite actions and opinions in succeeding ages.”77 Books truly promised a kind of eternity and divinity to those who read and conversed wisely; Bacon claims that “By learning man ascendeth to the heavens and their motions, where in body he cannot come.”78 Church of England clergyman Robert Cawdray’s (1537/8?–­1604?) vernacular collection of sententiae reminds readers in one

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  27

place that “as men in nothing more differ from the Gods, then when they are fooles: so in nothing they do come neare to them so much, as when they are Learned.”79 In another, he explains that this sublime erudition comes principally from a habit of “diligent & often Reading.”80 William Lorte’s commendation of Basse’s rudimentary Helpe to Discourse is even more emphatic that book learning was the principal ornament of the divinely given soul. It also rescued the lettered from the social faux pas of folly. By the end of Elizabeth’s reign there was clearly fear of appearing ignorant of any topic in a social setting of the sort Morley pre­sents at the opening of his Plain and Easie Introduction. An increasing number of wide-­ranging compilations such as Cawdray’s and Basse’s addressed and potentially assuaged such apprehension. Lorte promises that even superficial acquaintance with preassembled passages such as Basse’s would confer the erudition to make the speaker the envy of those condemned, like Morley’s Philomathes, to sit in mute discourtesy during topical discussion: Here the reverend Fathers, Poets, Orators, Councels, Schoolemen, and Philosophers, In one joynt union gravely all agree That thou another Oedipus shalt be. Expounding what’s most darke: whilst th’unread swaine, Envying th’ingenious Musicke of the braine, Sits mute to heare thee speake; but thy reward Is fame, respect, preferment, and regard.81

The would-­be reader of this work is thus promised a social advantage equivalent to years of academic training. Reading is presented as a preparative to speech and therefore dialectical persuasion. It is intriguing that Lorte borrows an ancient metaphor of silent music for unseen process and further links learned and persuasive speech to the music of reason. Again and again, writers on books and learning self-­servingly emphasize the precedence of mind over body, pure thought over physical action. “Th’unread swain,” silenced in his world of oral knowledge, was no greater rival to the man of literary learning than the rude minstrel to the elite composer. Even through lettered metaphor, good scholars would shut their fiddles in their cases and look to heaven. The potentially learned individual was encouraged to read widely, to apply all forms of previous (written) knowledge to personal moral and spiritual edification. Words were neither good nor evil, profitable nor empty, until carefully considered. The reader was encouraged to navigate contradictory au-

28  Chapter One

thorities, to constantly weigh the signification, meaning, and applicability of each idea to the just life as defined by his or her intellectual and spiritual community. What we now contrast as fiction and nonfiction, or myth and history, were equal stores of exemplary vice and virtue. The difference between print and manuscript, or traces of what may be considered popular and elite culture, had little relevance to the gathering of textual material to create new, original syntheses.82 Michel de Montaigne likens the transformation and shuffling of fragments by others into a work that is uniquely the writer’s to the way in which bees pilfer from flowers here and there to make honey that is no longer thyme or marjoram but entirely their own.83 Frequent analogies between reading and physical sustenance, or reading and cultivating an orchard or garden, reinforce that book learning provided food for thought and pharmacons for metaphysical health. “Even as among healthfull and medicinable hearbs, there springeth forth some weedes unprofitable and venemous,” writes Cawdray: “but the hearbes meete for medicines, the wise Physition onely doth gather: So in Reading of Authors . . . it is the part of good students . . . to collect such sentences and doctrines as may be profitable for them.”84 The most important end of the active reading process was selection of material to emulate in speech or writing that signature honey from many flowers culled. Logician and lawyer Zachary Coke (b. 1618?) emphasizes in his vernacular logic tutor that the learning process began with comprehension and judgment of things stated and concluded with selection and imitation of material.85 While topical print books such as Morley’s Plaine and Easie Introduction provided single-­subject basics to vernacular readers, there was also an explosion of general works printed in England from the final years of the sixteenth century through the second decade of the seventeenth. These were often modeled on the practice of collecting and arranging choice snippets of authoritative information under topical headings that in turn was founded on the medieval assemblage of pithy sayings and further rooted in organizational schemes from Aristotelian and Ciceronian rhetoric.86 Some of these early modern English print books were marketed as aids to discourse. Others simply provided enough material, topic by topic, that would-­be gentlemen would not be embarrassed in the sort of social setting Morley postulates at the beginning of his Plaine and Easie Introduction. The kind of wide reading Cawdray emphasizes was increasingly preselected and packaged into simple single volumes that offered all necessary material for (superficial) civilized discourse. It is worth noting that the same years that saw the mass-­market vernacular aids to discourse also witnessed the birth and development of the English dictionary, the first of which was compiled by Cawdray and printed

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  29

four years after his collection of commonplaces.87 Even the basic ability to read and write, as acquired from the sturdy alphabetical primers known as hornbooks, was said to promise all of human learning, including music: The Horn-­booke is the ground, which doth impart A world of Science; and great Art and skill Comes from the Horn-­booke be it good, or ill . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . The R[e]toritian, and the great Logitian; Th’Aritmetition, and the black Magition; The learn’d Phisitian, and the quaint Musitian; The grounded Grecian, and the sound Hebritian, Which mount Parnassus Hill; and not to seeke In English, Latin, Hebrew, and in Greeke, And all that deeply politick are found, Had first their knowledge from the Horn-­bookes ground.88

Reading is here deemed continuous with learned speech and writing. Music belongs to the canonical liberal arts because of its transmission through verbal text. Those who learn (of ) it by introductory encyclopedic means are considered musicians as similarly educated persons will be acknowledged rhetoricians, mathematicians, physicians, or other learned experts. The active reading process extended into selecting material to emulate in one’s own speech or writing. Coke emphasizes in his vernacular logic tutor that learning began with comprehension and judgment of others’ words and concluded with selection and imitation of appropriate material.89 It was a short step from reading to discursive display, especially for those with capacious memories. Blundeville distinguishes between reading for personal enlightenment and for convincing others in arguments: Yet there is some difference of consideration to be had, when by examples wee mynde to profit oure selves, & when we minde to profite others. For many tymes a thing of small importaunce, maye eyther quicken, or confirme in our selves a part of wisedome of great importaunce, but in counselling others (if wee woulde have our woordes to be of force and efficiencie) we muste use those examples that be of waight and importance. And therefore when we finde any such in our reading, we must not only consider of them, but also note them apart by themselves in such order, as we may easily finde

30  Chapter One

them, when soever we shall have neede to use them. And the order of such examples, would not be altogether according to the names of the persons, from whence they are take[n] . . . but rather according to the matters & purposes whereto they serve.90

The practice of noting useful examples “apart by themselves in such order, as we may easily finde them” was a key aspect of early modern learning and discourse.91 Coke demonstrates that the process reconfigured the relation between author and subject, text and context, reader and writer. Notebooks and related organizational schemata not only assisted the active reader, the rhetorician, the orator, and the logician. Perhaps more importantly, collections of exemplary topical information ordered “according to the matters & purposes whereto they serve” provide invaluable insight into the mental categories of sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century thinkers, especially as glossing shifted to more original forms of synthesis. As far back as Aristotle, the common ground between reading, thought, and virtuous discourse had been collection of such categorical snippets. From ancient Greece through the early modern era, these commonplaces, doxa, or topoi were accumulated directly in memory or as written aids to remembrance and future discourse. Most often they were arranged alphabetically by topic or according to some specific didactic scheme. Within each given category or place, perceived importance was of greater value than agreement between collected statements. The learned individual was expected to run through the places stored in mind and deploy whichever was needed for an extended argument “according to the matters & purposes whereto they serve[d].” Commonplaces brought together the shared and often contradictory beliefs of the cultures that assembled them, and they were collected during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries in many forms and to a wide range of specific ends. Their unique blend of didactic and ornamental power led to their use in virtually all literary forms.92 Commonplaces helped to recall the literal and figurative ordering of the universe and of all accumulated human knowledge; as such they were invaluable to all orators. By the sixteenth century, commonplaces belonged to the fluid space between logic, rhetoric, and ethics.93 The term commonplace (or common place) was vague. It overlapped in use with assemblages of florilegia and compendia of sententiae. Medieval and early modern gatherings of snippets culled from previous authority varied in length, scope, content, and emphasis. They ranged from simple definitions to pithy maxims to entire essays or orations, and they were assembled into

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  31

collections of equally varied length. From antiquity through the seventeenth century, commonplaces and related collations served as means of inventing or rediscovering arguments on topics about which opinions differed or that could not be proven simply or with absolute certainty. They were aids for students, orators, and sociable conversationalists alike, providing raw material for future use. The process of commonplacing was founded on Aristotelian and Ciceronian methods of collecting, storing, and organizing information relating to specific subjects from which it could be retrieved and reconfigured as the occasion demanded. Most simply, commonplacing and similar alphabetical schemes of organization enabled a collector to assemble information in a form that could be easily recalled. Practices of commonplacing also taught the ways in which given subjects, including performable genres of music, were conceived. By the sixteenth century the idea of the commonplace, or commonplace book, covered virtually any form of topical organization or collection of sententious sayings or other building blocks for longer works, headed or subdivided in a multitude of ways by an individual collector or as a print anthology.94 The title page of Thomas Gainesford’s The Rich Cabinet: Furnished with varietie Of Excellent discriptions, exquisite Charracters, witty discourses, and delightfull Histories, Devine and Morrall. Together With Invectiues against many abuses of the time: digested Alphabetically into common places, printed in 1616, shows how, by that date, commonplaces had come to serve as means of further organizing such categorical forms of discourse as descriptions, character literature, “Invectives against many abuses of the time,” and “witty discourses, and delightfull Histories, Devine and Morall.” The title alone indicates that the collection was conceived along the lines of the increasingly important cabinet of curiosities, further eliding distinctions between physical and mental ways to store and categorize.95 Blundeville states simply that “a Place is a marke or token shewing from whence any Argument apt to prove the Question propounded, is to be taken.”96 The same neutral, modular statements could be reiterated in multiple contexts to augment any point an interlocutor might choose, just as a collector of material objects could reorganize any assemblage according to its purpose. Gainesford’s “cabinet,” to which is appended advice on manners collected and translated from Giovanni della Casa’s international conduct best seller Galateo (first printed in Venice in 1558), does not include headings for “music,” “song,” “harmony,” or other obvious places for musical sententiae. However, the reader intent on expanding a personal collection of music-­related places, either in memory or manuscript (perhaps in one of the prebound blank books increasingly sold for commonplacing), would

32  Chapter One

find relevant material under “Order,” “Player,” and “Poetry.” “Player” unusually pre­sents empirical observations among collations of received wisdom, including reference to the contemporary English profession’s conventional training in music, dance, and song. “Poetry” sources musical information, as expected, from biblical and classical anecdotes. It also takes a contemporary nationalist political stance by explaining that “Poetry animated by musicke are [sic] dangerous companions amongst working spirits and barbarous nations: witnesse the bardes and rimers of Ireland and Wales, whose Siren songs have excited such hellish treasons and horrible tumults.”97 Like many writers on reading or discursive processes, Coke emphasizes selection of material in assembling commonplaces. He explains that “selection, is whereby the things which we read in others worthy observation, or which we our selves do find out, we dispose under certain Classes and Titles: commonly it is called the gathering of Common places.”98 Schoolmaster John Brinsley (1566?–­1624?) adds that students need not only study examples of moral matters and “places of Invention” but also learn content, turns of phrase, styles of argument, and retain sufficient store of matter, particularly moral. He especially recommends that beginning writers use “such Commonplace bookes as did but only containe the generall heads of matter, and then the Quotations of three or foure of the chiefe Authours . . . This would ease them of much searching, and make scholars to do such exercises much sooner, and with farre greater commendations.”99 Martyrologist John Foxe’s (1516/17–1587) unique printed commonplace book, which arranges and pre­sents headings but leaves choice of content to the owner, includes virtues and vices, arts and sciences, Christian catechistic topics, and such of the era’s vital philosophical considerations as “memoria” and “contemptus mundi.” Obvious places to add musical information from “the chiefe Authours” include “musica, eiusq[ue]; instrumenta. Harmonia,” “Artes, liberales. Mechanicae. quaesturiae,” and “Concordia. unitas. consensus. pax.”100 At the other end of the spectrum stand such apparently random collections of sentences, similitudes, or commonplaces gathered under the headings of “music” or “song” as in Ling’s much-­reprinted Politeuphuia. Here, following a formal definition of the subject, the reader finds pithy solecisms that move rapidly from pro to contra and back again across all areas of human learning.101 Literary compiler Robert Allott’s (fl. 1599–1600) printed collection of vernacular sententiae from “our moderne poets” draws its “musicke” section mostly from commendatory verses by Sir John Davies, Sir Philip Sidney, and Thomas Watson.102 The early seventeenth-­century manuscript commonplace book preserved as Folger Shakespeare Library MS V.a.381 gathers its typical

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  33

hodgepodge of musical material mostly in the vernacular and from the Bible, classical mythology, natural history, poetics, and the Church Fathers, particularly St. Augustine. Some snippets appear to have been copied directly, if without attribution, from Wright’s Passions of the Minde in Generall. In turn, Wright’s musical exposition is based on select commonplaces from the West’s “chiefe Authours” from antiquity until his own era.103

Constructing Arguments Common knowledge provided the raw material. Interlocutors were left to forge arguments to advance their own agendas until any opposition was convinced of their correctness. Morley’s Philomathes recalls this formula as he recounts how banquet guest Aphron fell to “discourse of Musicke,” which “argument [was] so quickly taken up & hotly pursued by [fellow guests] Eudoxus and Calergus.” When Aphron “in his owne art . . . was overthrown” by the latter two, they asked Philomathes to “examine his reasons, and confute them,” because Aphron was “still sticking in his opinion.” Philomathes admits to his companion Polymathes that he refused out of topical ignorance. He clearly understood the rules of engagement but not turns of phrase suitable to such “discourse of Musicke,” because the assembly “tooke [him] to be learned” in other areas.104 From Aristotle’s time until well into the seventeenth century, the fine art of disputation hinged on such formulation of a problem through collation of previous authority and consequent solution through careful distinctions between all available opinions. Negotiating and organizing this morass of basic premises in order to devise correct inferences and make deductions was the object of logic. For centuries, logic had been the pinnacle of the trivium and a vital aspect of scholastic education and discourse. Like other arts and sciences, it underwent reconsideration during the sixteenth century. It emerged between grammar and rhetoric by followers of Petrus Ramus, and it was increasingly accessible in the vernacular.105 Neither its fundamental utility nor its clear reliance on the gathering of earlier opinions wavered. “Logicke in the first place findeth out argumentes, and then in the next place disposeth such arguments for better and readier judgment,” explains one “Henoch Clapham, prisoner in the gate-­house at Westminster, adjoining London” in a print publication of 1605.106 Early modern English dialectic, most often considered synonymous with this logic and contrasted to the ornate forms of rhetoric that helped give arguments their subtle flavor, found its roots in a tangled web of classical, medieval, and current Continental arts of disputation.107 Against this muddle of potentially conflicting proce-

34  Chapter One

dures and organizational schemes, the essential tasks remained how to select appropriate material, how to argue, and how to anticipate opponents’ objections. The disputant was taught to reach agreement between the opposing views not through compromise but by synthesis between active and cooperating opposition of truth.108 Thus, the ordered deployment of commonplaces and the interpretation of collected arguments was crucial. According to long-­standing tradition, an early modern disputant was taught not only what to look for in reading and collecting commonplaces but how to assemble schematic displays of relevant knowledge. “An argume[n]t, is a waie to prove how one thyng is gathered by another, and to shew that thyng, whiche is doubtful, by that which is not doubtful,” explains college administrator Thomas Wilson (1523/24–1581) in a 1552 handbook.109 Untutored observation was thus unprofitable. On the other hand, neither the sort of active reading done in preparation for the production of new texts nor the collation and systematic glossing used to produce commonplaces was meant to end in mimetic repetition. Memory, meditation, and places stored in the mind were vital for the construction of original arguments.110 “Let them practice when they would invent matter, but to runne through those places curiously in their mindes; and if one place do not offer fit matter, another will surely, and furnish them with store,” writes Brinsley in a Jacobean summation of grammar school training.111 Disputation on music, as on other subjects, extended from reading and collection through grammatical structure and rhetorical eloquence all the way to moral philosophy. To a culture whose theories of communication were grounded on notions of moral improvement through the alteration of affections, it was impossible to separate exacting or persuasive speech from consequent action.112 Nowhere was this more true than in the formal construction of the rhetorical praise or blame. Minister Henry Peacham the Elder (1547–1634) defines encomion in the most important Elizabethan handbook on rhetoric as “a forme of speech by which the Orator doth highly commend to his hearers, some person or thing in respect of their worthy deserts & vertues.”113 More importantly, it served “to support and encrease vertue, by giving due praise and commendation to it.”114 Adhortation, like its opposite dehortation, was meant to have “not only the forme of a commandement or of a promise, but also sundrye & mighty reasons to move the minde and understanding of man not only to a willing consent, but also to a fervent desire to performe the thing adhorted.”115 Exemplarity and the storehouse of common knowledge found equal place in the exhortation to ethics, moral philosophy, and political action as in dialectic. “The principal end of making Theams,”

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  35

writes Brinsley, “[is] to furnish scholars with all store of the choicest matter, that they may therby learne to understand, speak, or write of any ordinary Theame, Morall or Political . . . and especially concerning vertues & vices.116 By giving rise to the thoughts of the mind, words also gave voice to the passions of the heart. These could be transmitted to others. Because of the hearer’s impressionability and the interlocutor’s power, words were ultimately inseparable from moral action and intent. “Experience, example, and consent of auncient, sacred, and prophane writers” therefore led to the inescapable conclusion that discourse must properly “begin in God.”117 To that end, the solidity of grammar and power of rhetoric became inextricably linked to logic in the construction of arguments. “A man may say against Eloquence, that truth is sufficiently maintained and defended by it selfe: which I confesse is true, where the minds of men are pure, and free from passions,” says Pierre Charron (1541–1603) in an early English translation of his best-­ known work. “But,” he continues, “the greatest part of the world, either by nature, or art, and ill instruction, is preoccupied, and ill disposed unto vertue and verity. . . . So by the fiery motions of eloquence, they must be made supple and maniable, apt to take the temper of veritie.”118 The Greek term equated with adhortation, protope, was not only most simply defined as doctrine or instructional. It was conceived as a figure whereby the hearer was not simply verbally commanded but moved fervently, as if by helping hands, to perform “the thing adhorted.”119 The anonymous author of The Arte of English Poesie, a noteworthy defender of music and its considerable virtues, explains that though it may seem “impertinent” to consider the grave task of moral instruction under such a frivolous heading as poetry, there is a dece[n]cy to be observed in every mans actio[n] and behavior aswell as in his speach & writing . . . for the good maker or poet who is in dece[n]t speach & good termes to describe all things and with prayse or dispraise to report every ma[n]s behaviour, ought to know the comlinesse of an actio[n] aswell as of a word & thereby to direct himselfe both in praise & perswasio[n] or any other point that perteines to the Oratours arte.120

The sermon, which united these arts of morality and persuasion, became the preeminent tool for transmission of argument from the early years of the English Reformation well into the seventeenth century.121 As vernacular manuals on how to construct sermons proliferated, the genre’s language and structural conventions came to influence disputation on music both directly and indirectly, as we shall see.

36  Chapter One

Materials for Discourse Participants in the continuous dialectic on music had many choices through which to direct themselves in “praise or persuasion or any other point that pertained to the orator’s art.” Like Case and the author of The Praise of Musicke, disputants could follow encomiastic form and deploy their arguments on one side of what was understood as a bipartisan debate. Alternatively, they could pre­sent opposed perspectives and prove one morally or logically superior, as do Gosson and Stubbes. Most often, writers laid out a mélange of material from a variety of sources and either reached measured conclusions after weighing the evidence or left tools for readers to construct their own arguments, the “common wealth” of the reading, writing, thinking wit who may choose to argue about music. The simplest and most direct sets of linked narrative comments, from the opening of the much-­neglected Elizabethan treatise The Pathway to Musicke to the ubiquitous music chapter of Andrew Boorde’s vernacular medical handbook, begin as methodically taught since Roman times: with a definition. Case varies the formula slightly for rhetorical effect by preceding the expected “Quid Musica” with “Musices Encomion & origo,” perhaps to better grab his reader’s attention and urge a course of action from the outset.122 Most writers selected their places and deployed their chosen arguments on music as best befitted the general topic of their work and the community of readers and writers to which they belonged. Even the definitions reflect these expectations. “Musica is the Latin word. In Greeke it is named Musicae,” explains Boorde, for whose profession these languages provided greatest authority. “In English it is named Musicke which is one of ye VII. liberal sciences & a science which is comfortable to man in sicknes and in health,” he continues for his medically inclined vernacular readership.123 The practical Pathway to Musicke defines the art for the hopeful performer as “a science, which teacheth how to sing sweetly, tuneably, and cunningly, by voyces or notes, under a certaine rule & measure.”124 And natural and moral philosopher Case tells his esoteric classically trained reader that Music is Nature’s daughter, master of morals, and mistress and moderator of minds.125 London schoolmaster Richard Mulcaster (1531/32–1611) begins his cautious encomium by explaining that “Musicke maketh up the summe, and is devided into two partes, the voice and the instrument . . . both the two in this age best to be begon, while both the voice and the jointe be pliable to the traine.”126 Likewise, language pedagogue John Florio (1553–1625), teaching “familiar speech, merie Proverbes, wittie sentences, and golden sayings” as an aspect of polite discourse in an

Praise, Blame, and Persuasion  37

English-­Italian language tutor, gives readers the sort of pithy flourishes that could help real-­life Philomatheses save face at intellectual social gatherings or musical performances: Howe doth Musicke please you? It pleaseth me wel, and you[?] Musicke is a laudable thyng. Yea sir, for Saintes have also used it, as kyng David, when he was any thyng sadde, or melancholike, he tooke delight in playing & singing Psalmes in praise of God his lord, Musicke is said to be the rejoysing of the hart: Musicke comforteth the mynde, and feareth the enimie, and also it is terrible, fearful, and terrifying: but there are many that do abuse it now adaies, which thing displeaseth me. You say true.127

As words on music were brought to evoke the opposed realms of earthly and heavenly desires, interlocutors raised their technical stakes and the persuasive quality of their arguments to best express their own judgment, wit, and understanding to their target audience. The only models for discussing music—past or present, as sound or as metaphor—were inherited through the liberal-­arts tradition. Yet the same textual commonplaces could be applied to multiple bodies of practice as well as bodies of discourse. Religious reformers, poets, lawmakers, natural philosophers, entertainers, and gentlemen conversationalists were left with overlapping vocabularies from common sources to apply to their chosen ends.128 Florio’s final two sentences, to be memorized for conversation in a foreign language, almost literally say it all. The same points had been made by the Church Fathers right down to the accusation that some people unnamed abuse the art. Whether learning the language of Italy or of erudite conversation, passing reference to the positive and negative capacities of music and to erroneous practice by some (presumably local contemporary) practitioners conveyed a vivid sense of urgency and timelessness. Adding a few words about biblical and Christian use strengthened both the rhetoric and the impression of familiarity with the topic. For other writers and orators, there were reasons to discuss music in Christian life beyond the display of learning. Practicing musicians, theologians, and others with professional investment in persuading listeners or readers of their perspective were less likely to simply outline collected arguments or to let the reader decide. The moral, professional, or doctrinal stakes were too high. However varied, however contradictory the early modern inheritance of

38  Chapter One

information on music, it remained the art and science most located between evident physicality and ontological mystery. It belonged to the learned contemplative, to the singer of ballads, and the would-­be gentleman or gentlewoman following current educational trends. Every collection of commonplaces or sententiae reminded the reader that the same music that raised the mind to God could also make it wander. Even imitations of the divine psalmist who “sang sweetly [of ] the Resurrection” in anticipation of the coming of Christ still began with a sensory gesture. The privileged position of musical discourse paradoxically enabled one to address sound and performance without the appearance of direct aesthetic or mechanical involvement. Embodied music, which incongruously reflected the greater harmony of the cosmos, not only involved up to five senses but entwined the bodies and lower spirits of auditor and performer. It was granted greatest power and greatest danger through carefully chosen words. With caution as old as Christianity, moral and immoral forms and contexts for music were framed and double framed with appropriate verbal signifiers. “But let us not so resemble small things to great, that wee should dare compare those Poetic Rhapsodies with his sacred Harmony, their sensuall Elegies and madrigals with his divers Sonnets,” cautions Somerset clergyman Henry Sydenham (1591–­ca. 1650) in his sermon at the dedication of a church organ.129 Music in the tradition of the saints and King David, even in a church with trained choir and (new) organ, had to emerge less favorably in words than the highest music of heaven. Sober speakers, whether memorizing new dialogues or addressing the faithful in the place of worship, formulaically acknowledged the inferiority of physically sensed music. Poet George Wither (1588–1667) toys with the same idea in his emblematic praise of music, whose image was borrowed from an earlier Dutch collection by Gabriel Rollenhagen (fig. 1.2).130 However, Wither rhetorically unifies rather than opposes audible and silent eternal music. Where Sydenham’s listener (and later reader) was meant to bring together contrasting qualities through contemplation, Wither bridges the two through the immediacy of language. Instead of starting with sound and the sight of an instrument in church or with an incontrovertible quotation from a psalm as does Sydenham, his poetic epigram begins with the conventional rhetorical device of diminishing his presumed opponents and their morally untenable position. Wither’s words classify as physically and spiritually ill those who would argue against his position. By implication, they are also ignorant. Any who knew their commonplaces of music would recognize that the pathetic melancholics so offended by its sound were in dire need of its restorative power—

Figure 1.2 Emblematic praise of music: “Musica, serva Dei” (Music, Handmaid of God). George Wither, A Collection of Emblemes, Ancient and Moderne, p. 65. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

40  Chapter One

comfort from the very quantity they peevishly eschewed. Had those poor fools even read, let alone assembled, a goodly selection of texts on music, they would have been able to prevent their own grave imbalance through the sheer force of arguments in favor of the art. As to the rest of Wither’s tacit opponents, they are guilty of poor judgment in the interstices between sensation and thought (the fantasy), in danger of wandering farther from intellection and reality.131 It was in such arguments that acoustics and adhortation came closest together and in which disputants’ opponents were rendered most monstrous. Here indeed, as Aristotle had suggested, to praise (or dispraise) is akin to urging a course of action.

CHAPTER TWO

Debating Godly Music Sober and Lawful Christian Use

The title “A Refutation of Objections Against the lawful use of Musicke in the Church,” the twelfth and final chapter in The Praise of Musicke, immediately evokes the format of an academic debate. This “Refutation” serves as the capstone of this entire Praise, especially its ultimate sequence of four chapters that consider aspects of “The Lawful Use of Musicke in the Church.” Its argument about what music is permissible and appropriate for ecclesiastical use is carefully constructed from an impressive range of information gathered, culled, and deployed from classical, biblical, patristic and more recent Christian authorities.1 “A Refutation” is the only chapter in this longest early modern English musical encomium to follow the conventional dialectical format of “how one thing is gathered by another, and to shew that thing, whiche is doubtful, by that whiche is not doubtful.”2 The author’s position is clear from weighing evidence on both sides: objections to the justifiable use of music in the (contemporary English) church are untenable and cannot be sustained. Methodical documentation substantiates and defines lawful and necessary ecclesiastical musical practice. It is the author’s choice of evidence, and especially the language in which he pre­sents it, that encapsulate key points of intersection between rhetorical demonstrativum exercises and core cultural beliefs about music not only in ecclesiastical space but the exemplary Christian life. From the outset, this refutation skillfully anticipates, examines, and confutes its author’s presumed opponents in a series of “objections” and “answers” based on arguments millennia in the making yet as current as the year of publication (1586). However, its opening deviates from the pattern 41

42  Chapter two

of third-­person neutrality that dominates the book. It brings the reader to the obligatory introductory summary of the topic through the urgency of the author’s own voice before presenting the range of current views concerning permissible music in the Church. “In this last part of my treatise I might seem to understand a matter far above my ability” begins the author, “were it not that either their objections were too weake to prove theyr purposes: or those which are of any force, mistaken and grounded upon false principles. Neverthelesse that I may proceede orderly therin, it shall not be amisse, to see what diversity of opinions are concerning this matter.”3 He then proceeds to demolish those perspectives with which he disagrees by presenting an impressive range of evidence from centuries’ worth of prior authority. The chapter and the book-­length encomium conclude not with the self-­consciously humble rhetoric of personal opinion but with paraphrase and marginal citation of two favorite commonplaces about the power of music, one from the Old Testament (2 Sam. 23:1), and the other from the most musically invested of the Church Fathers (Augustine, Confessions, bk. 9, chap. 6): And surely if there be any one thing in man, more excellent than another, that is Musicke: and therefore good reason, that hee which hath made us, & the world, and preserveth both us & it, should be worshipped & honored with that thing which is most excellent in man, dividing as it were his soule from his body, and lifting up his cogitations above himselfe. Such was the zeale and servencie of the kingly prophet David, that he was therefore called by the title not only of the anointed of the God of Jacob, but also the sweet singer of Israel. And S[aint] Austen saith of himselfe, That the voices, of the singers, did pierce into his eares, & Gods truth did distil into his hart, & that the[n]ce was inflamed in him an affection[n] of godliness which caused tears to issue from him so that he felt himself to be in a most blessed & happy state. FINIS.4

The anecdotes and language selected for these final sentences of the treatise do more than support the writer’s perspective with the unimpeachable authority of “kingly prophet” David and St. Augustine. They also suggest the acoustic properties and the overwhelmingly affective power of music, especially as subjective spiritual experience. The idea of aural penetration and resultant dissolution of bonds between soul and body and the capacities of music to reach the heart directly through the ear and to simultaneously inflame and melt a listener in tears proved as much a source of concern as approbation about music.

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It is in such reference to the Christian life, especially public religious services and private devotion, that the disputational approach to music acquired greatest urgency during the tumultuous first century and a half of religious reform in England. To praise or dispraise the art in this context was not only to urge a course of moral action: it connected the interlocutor to the musical heritage of the Church—the unitary Christian Church—across time and space. Carefully chosen arguments also had the potential to influence musical practice in an era of rapid religious change and uneasy religious plurality. Music had been discussed in relation to religious ritual and the sacred by so many thinkers well beloved by early modern dialecticians that the storehouse of examples was almost infinitely varied. The most ancient texts known to early modern readers and writers presented both Jewish and pagan worship as musical. Familiar biblical and classical tales told of musical miracles and mediation between mortal and eternal realms, as we see at the end of The Praise. Ancient philosophers such as Aristotle and the early Neoplatonists had emphasized music’s power over the soul and the art’s importance to the moral life. The Church Fathers had argued over the due place and appropriate styles of musical performance in early Christian rites.5 Sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century reformers and counterreformers had read and reread the same sources, recombining and glossing them further. Those who chose to approach music by way of disputation therefore found “all store of the choicest matter” to enable “any ordinary Theame, Morall or Political . . . especially concerning vertues & vices” on their topic among the vast storehouse of references to music in the service of Christian worship, private prayer, and the moral life past and present. Those who considered the sacred heritage and especially the idea of permissible Christian use found and generated new “invectives against many abuses of the time,” from ancient through contemporary, along with a real opportunity to examine any opponent’s “reason, proofe, and authority” concerning not only academic issues and processes but matters of national cultural concern and practice.6 Discussion of music in the exemplary Christian life extended to anxieties about the powers of the art and need for firm control because of the ecstatic, invasive, antirational aspects presented so vividly at the end of The Praise. What its author refers to as “that thing which is most excellent in man” and therefore necessary to honor the divine was also capable of invasion, dissolution of bodily integrity, and dissipation of the soul. Music could as easily move a grown man to tears—or unman him—as it could inspire him to love and serve the Lord. The art could potentially do even worse to less mature or rational persons. Because these properties were attributed to music itself, not to its text or con-

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text, and because religion guided the soul and its relationship to the divine, notions of lawful Christian use extended beyond the church and even sacred music. They also touched on a morass of contradictory ideas concerning the nature of the soul and its lack of fixedness and on the uneasy succession, and sometimes coexistence, of multiple Christian doctrines in sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century England.

“ Musica, serva Dei ” : (Textual) Places for God ’ s Handmaid The kind of wide reading and commonplace collection evident behind The Praise of Musicke provided useful authority for praising and dispraising music in the service of every religious agenda. As we saw in the previous chapter, it also enabled extension into literary, pedagogical, and multimedia works. Each writer was left to select the best and most appropriate earlier information for his or her argument, intended readership, and confessional affiliation. For those who did not want to conduct exhaustive searches through multiple sources, commercial compendia of general knowledge such as Allott’s Wits Theater of the Little World or Ling’s Wit’s Common wealth presented a range of ancient and modern, biblical and classical, information on music in pithy sentences from which the reader-­writer-­discussant could choose the most suitable. Both begin conventionally with a classical definition of music (derived respectively from Aristotle and Plutarch) and with the Judeo-­Christian commonplace that music was a gift of God. Both likewise pre­sent conflicting evidence about permissible music in Christian sacred context.7 However, Allott freely juxtaposes contradictory statements from equally venerable sources and unimpeachable authorities about church music in his place “Of Musique & Dauncing.” Its midpoint especially encapsulates brief, memorable sentences with contrasting perspectives on early (and thus true and original) Christian music. Allott attributes these to Saints Ambrose, Athanasius, and Augustine and to the more recent Italian reformer Peter Martyr Vermigli: Ambrose[,] Bishop of Millane, when that hee with other holy men, watched even in the Church, least they shoulde have beene betrayed to the Arrians, brought in singing to avoyde tediousness, and to drive away the time. August[ine]. This Athanasius forbade, to avoyde vanities, S. Augustine was indifferent, and it repented him, because hee had sometimes fallen, by giving more attentive heed unto the measures and chords of musicke, then the words which

Debating Godly Music  45

were under them spoken; for that measure & singing, were brought in for words sake, and not words for musick[.] In the East parts, the holy assemblies, even from the beginning, used singing. P[eter. Mart[yr Vermigli].8

Readers are thus left to select the material that best suited their viewpoint or intended purpose or to find their own way to reconcile disagreement among authorities. In contrast, mass-­market compendia of previous wisdom assembled by those with specific theological agendas, such as John Marbeck’s Reformist-­ leaning Booke of Notes and Common Places, laid out relevant musical material to reinforce their compliers’ perspectives. In keeping with the intent of his collection as “A worke both profitable and also necessarie, to those that desire the true understanding & meaning of holy Scripture,” Marbeck’s place of “Musicke” is largely exegetical, with emphasis on justification of true and correct practice. The section is almost entirely concerned with what had been permissible in sacred services from ancient temple practices under “the olde lawe” before “the coming of Christ” through the days of St. Augustine, the excesses “ye Papists” purportedly incorporated from the Jews, and into the “service of God in a plainer sorte” of his own era. In addition to patristic and biblical references, the compiler includes sententiae from Vermigli and John Calvin in support of music to enhance simple, sincere prayer. Marbeck omits potentially contradictory information or frames it in such a way that the reader will necessarily adopt his viewpoint.9 The “distinctly Protestant vision of Christian history” expressed for personal use in London craftsman Thomas Trevelyon’s (b. 1548) lavishly illustrated 1608 manuscript commonplace book properly accords “Musicke” a definition. This fifth of the seven liberal sciences, he explains, “teacheth men to sing and to make a difference of tymes, as well by voice as instrument.” Trevelyon reserves commonplaces in praise of the art—all biblical, mostly Old Testament, with emphasis on psalms and cited by book, chapter, and verse—for the place headed “Syngyng men,” which literally embodies music as a sacred art to unite congregants in harmony. The place is marked by an image of two bearded men, clad not in the formal vestments of “singing men” but in lay clothing, who clasp between them the bass from a set of four open partbooks while one gestures with outstretched right forefinger to the countertenor (fig. 2.1). The rhythmic structures and homophony of the four parts suggest the setting for a psalm in common meter.10 The reader is thus invited to join the song led by those appointed by authority, and perhaps supply

Figure 2.1 “Syngyng men.” Thomas Trevelyon, Pictorial Commonplace Book, fol. 189. Call # MS V.b.232. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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his or her favorite psalm text, while Trevelyon’s selection of exclusively scriptural words reinforces similar ideals as Marbeck’s. Prose narratives intended to serve as complete arguments about Christian music emphasize a specific perspective by choice of material and rhetorical structure. Like The Praise, country parson Charles Butler’s Principles of Musik in Singing and Setting from half a century later includes at the apex of its section on divine music a series of brief, unattributed general “Objections” to church music. These, too, alternate with more detailed strategic “Responses” culled from precisely cited biblical and patristic authorities. Readers are therefore given a set of references, and a greater amount of quotable information, for one side of the argument. Potentially contradictory material is minimized, its sources suppressed. Therefore, the methodical reader must accept Butler’s reasoning for his era’s continuance of ancient church musical practices and, from his book, will only be able to cite original sources on one side of the debate. For example, “Object[ion] I” states in passive voice and with vague authority that “It is objected, that exquisite Musik dooth not further but hinder the Service of God.” Butler’s active, engaging “Respons[e]” immediately proclaims that no less authority than St. Augustine is “of an other minde.” The author then pre­sents as primary evidence the saint’s own dramatic words in English and Latin from chapters 9 and 10 of Confessions about how music in divine service moved him to religious fervor and tears. Butler follows with the more circumspect description of the divine origin of psalms from the preface to St. Basil’s ad Psalmos summarized in English and quoted in its original Latin.11 Again, those who disagree with the response would literally disgrace fathers of the Christian church and question divine intent. The so-­called antitheatrical tracts and responses to them by populist writers dispense with formal “objection” and “response” section headings. Nonetheless, they approach appropriate use of music in contemporary Christian life through opposing sides of a binary argument. Sometimes they argue directly with each other, sometimes with unspecified opponents who may implicitly include the as-yet-­unconvinced reader. Sometimes they present self-­contained debate between two sides as dialogue between named speakers. In each case, one perspective is given the preponderance of information. The other is outlined in vague, general arguments that are demolished through carefully presented evidence.12 The specifically Christian aspect of musical praise-­and-­dispraise exercises intersected with a wider context of discourse about music and the sacred in early modern England. Language was the medium through which information about musical practices and effects on individual and collective bodies

48  Chapter two

was passed from ancient sages to modern thinkers and between groups of readers and writers separated by space or ideology. As we saw in the previous chapter, mass-­market music books often prefaced notated music with general discussions of the art, offering performers a ready-­made script should they chose to combine bodily engagement with discourse. Increasingly, as we have also seen, performable music engaged with general argument pro and contra even though interlocutors paid scant attention to actual performance practices. Those who chose to participate directly in godly, or lawfully Christian, music as defined by their religious affiliation therefore had ample choice of material for use in every space in which prayer or contemplation took place but few nontechnical words to describe its structural features. Not only were there manuscripts for every kind of domestic or ecclesiastical use but also the sort of monumental print edition of Latin sacred music we saw in the previous chapter and successive compilations of metrical psalms, for which there seemed to be endless appetite starting in the mid-­sixteenth century. Many print collections of part-­songs, consort songs, lute ayres, and even catches included settings of prayers, hymns, psalms, other biblical texts, or retellings of biblical narratives. These contemplative pieces were sometimes interwoven with secular and even frankly salacious songs presumably to increase overall marketability and appeal. Broadside ballads, conventionally set by Elizabethan and seventeenth-­century Protestant Reformers into conflict with metrical psalms and other godly music, included retellings of Old Testament narratives and a wide range of moralizing texts intended to appeal across the confessional spectrum. The 1566 Bible in Englyshe even refers to the Song of Songs as “The Ballet of Ballettes” (Ballad of Ballads).13 Participation in sacred-­texted music in any space constituted its own form of response to select “objections.” It was also an immediate, corporeal means “to sing, with the Saints and Angels in heaven,” as Butler put it, or to participate in the kind of communal religious identity Trevelyon depicts.14 Yet performing or listening to godly music was fundamentally different from defending the practice even if print collections of sacred song were conventionally packaged with prefatory words to that end. Poet and lawyer Edward Hake’s (fl. 1564–1604) epistle “To the Reader” in William Daman’s 1579 Psalmes of David in English Meter “to the use of godly Christians for recreatying them selves in stede of fond and unseemly Ballades” attempts to bridge the two modes of engagement. The verbal introduction typically situates the collection within the encomiastic tradition while reminding the reader that such performable music has a different, more divine purpose. Hake recalls the vast number of “authorities and places” in favor of music before reminding readers

Debating Godly Music  49

that music—presumably most immediately the collection he introduces— constitutes its own self-­praise. He presents a list of biblical passages for reference and potential reuse. Hake is careful to distance himself from the erroneous English Catholic practices of yesteryear, positioning himself firmly in support of moderate Elizabethan church use—even in a collection intended for domestic recreation: Lastly, to thrust my penne into the large fieldes of prayses and due commendations of Musicke in general . . . I might easely begin; yea and ple[n]tyfully proceeded in, but how or where I should make an end (authorities and places in that behalfe beyng so infinite) truely truely I know not. I leave Musicke therefore to be commended by and of her selfe, and the warrant of Musickes commendation I leave to God and to Nature, who shall mightyly, nay gloriously yield forth the same to all such as will aske and inquire thereof. Read 1. Sam[uel]. 16.23 2. Kyng.3.15 Ephe[sians].5.19. 1 Cor[inthians]. 14. 15. Nevertheless, in anything by mee here written, I have not meant to defend any abuses of Musicke whatsoever committed in the Church of God, or rather the prophanyng of Gods divine service by Musicke (as in the time of Popery). . . . For what hath either Musicke or any thing els betwene heaven and earth to be commended for, farther, than it shall serve to set forth the glory and comfort of the eternall world?15

The textual and contextual emphasis of biblical and patristic models for discussing sacred music left writers like Hake free to form their own connections between inherited recommendations and current kinds of music. Words on sacred music, and the music itself, were in the air and on the minds of many, if granted distinct conceptual places. Katherine Steele Brokaw has demonstrated how popular drama, court drama, and stage plays—often considered antithetical to Christian religious exercises—served as vehicles to both support and critique rapid changes in sacred musical practices from before the Henrician reforms through Shakespeare’s day. Their direct inclusion of music to help make the point elided the aural and written, sacred and secular, and space for discussion of the art and its place of practice in Christian life. Conversely, Jonathan Willis has shown the extent to which musical discourse, especially concerning abstract powers of the art, affected the course of Protestant practice in post-­Reformation England.16 Claude Desainliens’s much-­reprinted 1573 French-­language self-­tutorial and John Stepney’s similar Spanish-­language manual originally from 1591 include dialogues teaching the bilingual vocabulary for discussing music as well as sermons heard during

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a Sunday service at St. Paul’s Cathedral and at Paul’s Cross in its churchyard. Stepney’s includes words in both Spanish and English for selecting and singing a notated part in a psalm during the service, for telling a fellow singer that he is out of tune, and for responding to such accusation. Whether these volumes were primarily intended for or used by native English speakers, as both dedications indicate, or by visitors or immigrants from France or Spain, they show concern with the ability to discuss music heard and performed in sacred space and context. In these cases, the referent is a famous London landmark and the very epitome of conforming English religious practice with elite professional singers and instrumentalists. Perhaps well-­endowed churches and cathedrals with remarkable music were already tourist destinations even across national and confessional boundaries; these dialogues, especially Stepney’s, certainly include relevant vocabulary. One of Stepney’s nameless interlocutors dismisses the sound of St. Paul’s choir and at least one keyboard player as inferior to what he had heard the previous Sunday at “the Court at Richmond/la Corte de Richmondia,” performed by “the Queenes ministrels/los musicos de la Reyna” and singers, presumably the Chapel Royal at Hampton Court.17 This emphasis in introductory language tutors suggests that wealthy religious establishments completed as public destinations for music among connoisseurs. Such dialogues as Stepney’s, and any actual practice they may represent, do little to assuage the common objection that, in Butler’s words, the service of God is hindered “whilst the people listening to the pleasantness of the Note, regard not the matter of the Ditti.”18 Farther from London and the Church of England, travel writer Thomas Coryate (1577?–­1617) provides sumptuous details of “solemne feasts” he witnessed in several Venetian churches, including San Marco, San Rocco, and a convent church “in St. Laurence parish” (San Lorenzo). Like Desainliens and Stepney, he focuses on concrete descriptions of the service, its participants, and means of defining sacred space. Coryate’s words especially emphasize the choral singers and vocal soloists (one of whom he was surprised to learn was not “an Eunuch”), instrumentation, vestments, ritual gestures, architectural features, and the crowd of worshippers and observers who included local luminaries and foreign visitors. Coryate definitely perceives these ecclesiastical spaces as tourist destinations for enjoying music and spectacle, perhaps especially because the services belong to a Christian practice distinct from his national one. Even the “ditti” is in another tongue, enabling closer “listening to the pleasantness of the Note.” However, Coryate’s description of the effects of what he heard during the namesake saint’s feast day at San Rocco features the same inherited vocabulary of sensory dissolution and spiritual pleasure

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that we see in The Praise, Butler’s Principles, and other paeans to powers of the art in sacred context: This feast consisted principally of Musicke, which was both vocall and instrumentall, so good, so delectable, so rare, so admirable, so superexcellent, that it did even ravish and stupifie all those strangers that never before heard the like. But how others were affected by it I know not; for mine own part I can say this, that I was for a time even rapt up with Saint Paul into the third heaven.19

Religiously conforming writers less xenophilic and more concerned than Coryate with doctrine heard only heresy in Catholic ritual music anywhere in Europe. They also heard the same in what were considered similar Muslim practices in more distant lands. However, as English travel narratives described religious experiences farther and farther east of Venice and Muslim territories, they located and identified what coded as lost traditions of Christian sacred music. Chinese and Indian temple bells were granted the same significance as those rung in English and Western European churches. These instruments and their evidently familiar ritual use helped validate the legendary Eastern Christianity of Prester John, revealing to travelers (and later readers) a distorted but still recognizable form of their own faith.20 Perhaps this diversity of godly music was especially comprehensible to readers and writers from a nation in which, at any given time during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, native populations and successive waves of religious refugees practiced, or at least remembered, mutually unacceptable versions of Christianity with contrasting forms of ritual music. Not every English Christian embraced at any given time the official state religion or its authorized sacred music. The populace was ordered to change forms of belief and practice several times during the mid-­sixteenth century. Waves of religious immigrants alternately came to and left England as patterns of sectarian acceptance and persecution changed rapidly across Western Europe. A significant Catholic minority remained in England after the accession of Elizabeth in spite of varying degrees of hostility. This population maintained strong ties to the Continent well into the seventeenth century, especially to the English Jesuit College in Rome, as well as a significant presence among England’s intellectual and economic elite.21 Elizabethan London was a center of the international Calvinist diaspora, welcoming new immigrants as well as those who had fled Mary’s Catholic regime and returned to a more accepting but still changed religious and political climate. This popu-

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lation crossed social and economic lines from manual laborers to the aristocracy and included merchants with continuing international ties. It found particular favor with the English printing and publishing industry, enabling rapid mass dissemination of its core values. Even before the civil war and suppression of England’s commercial theaters, Calvinism and radical Reform agendas exerted a distinct effect on public music and music making.22 London remained a center for international commerce and diplomacy with concomitant exposure to foreign customs. As native writers encountered and described distant religious rites in prose, these came to be depicted in popular entertainment complete with reimagined sound and music.23 Popular religion, with its sometimes indifferent attitude toward current Christian tenets, its wide range of beliefs, and its extraliturgical practices for contact with the otherworldly, remained widespread.24 Even during one of the more stable periods of an era marked by change, the meticulous scholar Robert Burton (1577–1640) alliteratively lumps together outside of mainstream national practice a host of “seditious Sectaries, peevish Puritans, perverse Papists [and] a lascivious rout of Atheisticall Epicures, that will not be reformed.”25 Against this background and parallel to increasing debate about music came attempts to standardize national ecclesiastical practice, especially as sibling monarchs Edward, Mary, and Elizabeth succeeded their father and each other to the throne. An Elizabethan “Sermon of the Place and Time of Prayer” printed in 1570 as “Set out by the aucthoritie of the Queenes Majestie: and to be read in every parishe church agreeably” presents the voice of a woman nostalgic for the multimedia spectacle she remembered from the previous queen’s reign. “Alas, gossip,” the woman asks her neighbor through the voice of the preacher, “what shal we now do at Church since al ye goodly sightes we were wont to have ar gone, since we cannot hear the lyke pyping, singing, chaunting, & playing uppon the organs that we could before[?]” The unified voice of her neighbor, preacher, and her properly reformed congregation responds, “But (dearely beloved) we ought greatly to rejoice and geve God thanks that our churches are delivered of all those thinges which displeased God so sore & fylthyly led his holy house and his place of prayer.” In case this collectivity of contemporary Christians is not enough, the preacher paraphrases part of St. Paul’s first epistle to the Corinthians to prove that removal of such audiovisual filth realigned the English parish church with intended practice.26 What the imagined woman parishioner misses, and the sermon preaches against, is the immediate sensory “pleasantness” in which Coryate and Stepney frame their contrasting presentations of ecclesiastical musical experi-

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ence. Hake’s objections to banished Popish practices are vaguer, and The Praise of Musicke, like Butler’s Principles, enumerates cogent counterobjections to those deluded enough to speak against “exquisite” music in the divine service.27 Available models for debating about Christian music, then, reflected the lack of uniformity in religious faith and practice across early modern England and, for those who read widely enough, throughout contemporary Christendom. Whether for communing with St. Paul in the third heaven above a foreign church, listening to music while enjoying the sights of the same saint’s London cathedral, hearing echoes of English church bells in Asian rituals, selecting arguments in praise or dispraise of sacred practice in general, or objecting to someone else’s idea of acceptable Christian use, sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century English readers and writers had a wide range of vocabularies and contexts to consult as models for their own discourse. Underlying many exemplars were not only long-­standing debates on contextual merits of the art but a real sense that individuals and groups participated in a wide range of musics they considered appropriately Christian but which others may have decried as erroneous.

Music to the Praise and Glory of God: “ A Methodicall Gathering Together of Authorities ” Religiously motivated writings on music, from official Church of England documents to radical pamphlets, rarely give a sense of how English people actually engaged with the art. Such writings often borrow form and content from conventional encomiastic or demonstrativum exercises or from the infinitude of places and authorities on music. They evince at best a tacit awareness of the range of sacred music in circulation and use. Credentials to speak come from a literary heritage including experiential phrases about past auralities. Opinions on the current (deplorable) state of (English sacred) music were adapted from them. Tellingly, Butler separates the practical tenets of contemporary music from justification of current practice by dividing his work into two books, one on principles for performers and composers, the other “of the uses of musik.” Thus he distinguishes between what later became the theory and history of music, one guiding bodily engagement through technical vocabulary, the other foregrounding narratives of cultural use.28 Guided disputation on music in sacred context served a didactic if not catechistic purpose. It enabled the faithful to remain in step with official prac-

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tice while internalizing relevant commonplaces. Printed psalters with notated music often invite the reader to the featured contents with easily memorable prefatory sayings culled from the Bible or patristic sources.29 Careful choices from the common stock of places and authorities, plus appropriate rhetorical framing, could help signal an individual’s position within the era’s complex denominational web or enable concealment behind general knowledge. It could give a sense of membership in a specific religious community even though such communities were difficult to define in practice. Music was only one regulatory concern of successive religious reforms from early Tudor times through the Restoration. Yet as a social art with symbolic dimension, it united participants in harmony as it had since the early days of the Church.30 Perhaps because music belonged to nearly all forms of Christianity practiced in England and was more immediately accessible to laypeople than were finer points of doctrine, words about the art could express religious principles. The same handful of classical philosophers, biblical passages, and early Christian theologians are quoted, named, or paraphrased again and again. Claiming (modern) ownership of and intellectual descent from, influential past sages was the principal way to legitimate not only one’s ideas but those of one’s religious community. This very commonality, alongside mass-­ market sacred music, also united individuals across sectarian boundaries. William Daman, the Lucca-­born composer for whose collection of psalms the accounted “Puritan” Hake wrote prefatory material, was said to be “of the Italian (i.e. Catholic) church,” probably of Jewish origin, and had married in the Church of England under which auspices his children were baptized.31 William Byrd, whose most personally expressive Catholic motets could speak as powerfully to Protestants, concludes the prefatory “Reasons briefely set down . . . to perswade every one to learne to sing” of his Psalmes, sonets, & songs of sadnes and pietie of 1588 with the epitome of a universal, incontrovertible Christian commonplace of music: the final verse of Psalm 150, Omnis spiritus laudet Dominum.32 Authors of extended writings on music in Christian contexts borrowed from an equally common stock of words and concepts that retained their rhetorical urgency and contextual applicability across centuries of musical change. Traditional habits of thought dominated early modern religious discourse, and English commentaries on sacred music were no exception.33 Church of England clergyman and theologian Thomas Becon’s (1512/13– 1567) collection of religious commonplaces “faithfully gathered out of the most faythfull wryters of histories and chronicles” and printed in 1563, for instance, includes two substantial music sections whose sources typify those

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incorporated into English Reform writings on the topic.34 Becon’s carefully collated comments appear to address current styles of liturgical music and argue against Catholic ritual. “But nowe a dayes Musicke is growne to such and so greate licentiousnesse, that even at the ministration o ye holy Sacramente,” begins one such passage, all kynde of wanton & leude trifelying songes with pipyng of Organs have theyr place and course. As for the divine service and common prayer, it is so chaunted, mynsed and mangled of our costlye hired, curious and nise Musitions (not to instructe the audience withall, nor to stirre up mens mindes unto devotion but with an whoryshe armonye to tickle theyr eares) that it may justly seme not to be a noyse made of men, but rather a bleating of brute beastes.35

This rhetoric is undeniably urgent and addresses a core musical concern of the English Reformation. Becon also apparently speaks to the low standards among professional parish musicians independently documented in official records of the Church of England.36 His direct source, however, is Agrippa von Nettesheim’s satiric work on the vanity of worldly learning, which relevant passage rests in turn on a paraphrase from Augustine’s Confessions.37 The Praise of Musicke responds to detractors by diminishing them through dialectical convention. The author especially disparages those who generalize from subjective experience or react unthinkingly: Now although there be none but few men so senselesse & blockish by nature, or by dispositio[n] so peevish, & waiward, that taking no delight in Musick the[m]selves, & measuring ye worth & price thereof, by their own affectatio[n]s, do accou[n]t of it as a thing either vain & unlawful, or idle & unprofitable, yet there be many, who albeit they allow a moderate, & sober use of it, in civil matters: do not withstanding cast it out of the church, as an uncleane thing.38

The same section borrows from Saints Augustine, Basil, and Jerome, among others, to demonstrate that church music is not a distraction from but a proper directive to divine meditation. The author demonstrates scholarly knowledge, whereas his opponents are presented as relying on vague, misguided assumptions. The practices of well-­staffed Anglican cathedral and collegiate foundations are the true heritage of Christian ritual, says he, and those who deprecate these are so ignorant as to effectively cast music from

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the church. The author also distances himself from unnecessarily elaborate practice by criticizing the early error of “that exquisite kind of musicke which afterward [of the foundations of Christianity] was in use in Italy.”39 As to the standard objection to organs and other instruments, The Praise conventionally cites psalms and commentators who gloss them in support. The author also paraphrases Church Father Justin Martyr about how only instruments most suited to children should have no place in church.40 These arguments had served many generations well through changes to musical style, performance practice, and instrument building. The form of debate remained for each side to cite or quote recognizable authority and imply that the opposition relied on alternative facts. Thomas Whythorne, whose 1571 Songes, for three fower and five voyces includes psalms and other devotional works interspersed with lighter and more erotic fare for the “contention and liking” of many sorts, goes even further than Butler or The Praise. Temperamentally more musician than scholar, Whythorne does not even credit opponents of his divine art with having gathered information, in contrast to his own careful contextual reference to saints, holy men and women, and several books of the Bible. In the same tradition as Wither’s call for pity for those whose judgments are so “befool’d” as to suspect ill from music in sacred service (fig. 1.2), Whythorne simply dismisses them as “blockhedz, and dolts” suffering from “franzy and madnes.”41 Across all spectra of the English Protestant majority, sacred music was linked to the incorporeal intellectual faculties and power of words. The most venerable authorities, particularly Saints Paul and Augustine, had made it so.42 “Let the word of the Lord abound plenteously in you, teach and admonish ye one another in Psalms, Hymnes, and spiritual songs, singing in your hearts with grace,” writes Marbeck, drawing on an often-­cited commonplace from Paul’s epistle to the Ephesians. On such ancient basis, music placed the message of Christianity within reach of the faithful by making the Word easier to be learned, remembered, and internalized.43 The forty-­ninth of the “Articles to be enquired in the visitation, in the first year of the reign of our most dread sovereign Lady Elizabeth, by the grace of God, of England, France, and Ireland, Queen, defender of the faith, &c. anno 1559” specifies that the new monarch in no way intends to diminish use of “the laudable science of music” in church. However, in spite of wider provision “for the comforting of such that delight in music,” “there is to be a modest and distinct song, so used in all parts of the Common Prayers in the Church, that the same may be as plainly understanded, as if it were read without singing.”44 Church music had to be accessible not only to congregants’ ears but to

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their hearts. This necessitated active bodily participation instead of passive listenership. As early as 1552, such ideas made up part of a royal commission to reform England’s ecclesiastical laws: In reciting of the divine chapters and in the chanting of Psalms the ministers and clerks should carefully consider the fact that not only should God be praised by them, but others should also be led to the same worship by their exhortation, example, and observation. For this reason, let them pronounce the words methodically and distinctily, and let their chanting be clear and connected so that all things may attain to the feeling and understanding of the hearers. Therefore, it is determined that the vibrato and elaborate music, which is called fashionable, be removed. It causes such disturbance to the ears of the multitude that it is often impossible to hear the language of those speaking. Furthermore, the hearers themselves are to have a part in the work together with the clerks and ministers. They will chant certain small parts of the divine services . . . which have the greatest importance in our common faith. For with these pious exercises and inducements of the divine worship, the very people will be aroused and will possess a certain feeling for Prayer. If this amounts to nothing but to listen quietly, the mind will be chilled and dulled in such a way that it will be able to form no ardent and serious thought about divine matters.45

In spite of reference to current practice, these directives are founded on stock commonplaces of music in the historic church. Vibrato and elaborate music had been condemned as fashionable excesses from the days of Saints Athanasius and Augustine through Erasmus and Agrippa before English Reformers took up the issue.46 Through the words of St. Paul to the Corinthians, Holy Scripture had long called for a mixture of spirit and understanding in prayer and song.47 These borrowed arguments appear again and again in increasingly urgent sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century English rhetoric, cleverly blurring lines between musical contemplation and action, past and present. Other arguments were based on ancient claims that audible music was too sensuous to support text. On authority ranging from ancient Roman physician Galen through Church Fathers to medieval bishop Guillelmus Durandus, the art was deemed capable of harm; song was especially the province of carnality, even in church. English Reformation sacred music therefore had to be free from latent voluptuousness, which was additionally accounted a Catholic error.48 To some, the tunefulness of any music supporting metrical text was uncomfortably close to secular balladry and tavern song, especially

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early in the history of English Reformation psalmody. Performance practice was equally problematic. “Let them not sing rude and rusticall things, neither let [sacred music] be [sung] immoderately, as doe the Taverne h[a]unt‑ ers,” writes Marbeck.49 On the other hand, many recognized that Christian worship included a vital heritage of sacred song. Good Christian couples were exhorted to “mutuallie provoke one an other to sing praises unto God,” but the same repertory “should not be handled in greate alehouse chaunters mouths.”50 The most intensely critical and defensive expositions concerning church music after the accession of Elizabeth were written by such contrasting adherents to official state religion as Becon, Butler, Marbeck, and the author of The Praise of Musick. Argument among conformists was largely a matter of demonstrating who spoke with greatest authority for English reformed practice and against erroneous ideas and foreign influence. With little concern for actual musical style, intellectuals across the religious spectrum cited or paraphrased the same body of earlier authority to affirm the primacy of text over music. Such statements were often intended as imprimaturs of Reform affiliation rather than declarations of aesthetic taste.51 However, in his seminal work on the passions, the Roman Catholic Wright borrows the authority of Saints Augustine and Athanasius, two equal favorites of Protestant thinkers, to argue for the same practice.52 Even on this key issue, interlocutors use overlapping content and rhetorical styles to address their own communities through imagined, and less learned, opponents. A typical contrast is provided between two print books with incidental reference to music and religious practice that were published in the vernacular in successive years of Elizabeth’s reign. Neither music nor theology is the main focus of either. Since each volume covers wide intellectual territory, however, both topics became necessary components. Built on shared commonplaces, both books apply similar points to different ends. Each represents a different degree of English Reform thought and addresses a contrasting audience. Neither is entirely pro or contra music, although one more clearly emphasizes the noble intellectual heritage of the art and the other its long-­standing dangers. Both appeared early in the decade in which praising and dispraising music first became fashionable in England. The first was written by a minister and self-­styled “professour in Divinitie,” Stephen Batman (or Bateman, ca. 1542–1584), published in 1582. The book is a typically Elizabethan translation of Bartholomeus Anglicus’s thirteenth-­ century natural history, De proprietatibus rerum, which Batman dedicated to the queen’s maternal cousin, governor of Berwicke, Lord Warden of the

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East Marches of England, and Privy Councillor Henry Car[e]y (1526–1596), first Baron Hunsdon, whom he served at the time as a domestic chaplain.53 Batman had wide-­ranging habits of mind, collected old texts, and possessed clear interests in antiquarianism, illustration, iconography, and medieval religious literature. His writings attempt to accommodate older Catholic thought to contemporary English Protestantism, and he urged fellow readers not to ignore the spiritual value of “papisticall” works or to destroy them as some zealots were wont to do. In addition to collecting books for himself, he had, before coming into Baron Hunsdon’s service, been employed by Archbishop of Canterbury Matthew Parker (1504–1575) to help assemble an impressive library while serving as his chaplain. Batman claims to have gathered 6,700 volumes for Parker, probably mostly print books.54 Nothing is known of any interest or training Batman may have had in music. Parker, however, translated the version of the Whole Psalter for which Thomas Tallis composed music; he also translated St. Athanasisus’s Expositiones in Psalmos, St. Basil’s Homiliae in Psalmos, St. John Chrysostom’s in Psalmos, and St. Augustine’s Confessions, book 10, chapter 33, all of which were important sources of musical information for early modern thinkers.55 Carey later served as dedicatee of Byrd’s Songs of Sundrie Natures and had been, since the 1560s, patron of the troupe of players who later became the Lord Chamberlain’s Men— Shakespeare’s company.56 Batman was therefore positioned to support music in mainstream parish practices, domestic devotion, and the range of social and ritual uses of the Elizabethan courtier. And he clearly had the learning to do so. Like any thorough natural history in the classical tradition, Bartholomeus’s Proprietatibus devotes a chapter to the quadrivial science of music, which it conventionally defines as an art of number and measure by which concord and melody are known in sound and song. Like any good medieval Christian scholar, he draws musical knowledge from the Old Testament, Plato, Aristotle, and Boethius, although the only authority he names is Isidore of Seville. Perhaps most importantly, he emphasizes that music is “needfull to know ye secret meaning of holy writ,” because the world is made in harmonious proportion, and heaven moves with musical consonance and accord.57 After his translation of Bartholomeus’s material, Batman appends a very learned “Addition” about the art, written with the dialectical skill of a trained minister and practiced preacher. The section “setteth forth properly Musicke” emphasizes its history and use since ancient times, and it is dominated by commonplaces in “a Methodical gathering together of authorities.” As one would expect of

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a divine, particularly one who had assembled a library for an archbishop and who translated, edited, and revised influential Christian texts, these are predominantly biblical and patristic. Augustine predominates among the latter. As one might also expect of a vocational scholar, Batman includes material from more modern experts, among them Agrippa von Nettesheim, Lodowick Lloyd, and Peter Martyr Vermigli. Perhaps most importantly, Batman carefully intersperses his own opinions, agreement, and disagreement within the dialogue he constructs from well-­known material. By the early 1580s, the praise and dispraise of music had become a distinct literary genre, and it inflected religious and populist discourse.58 The three-­part controversy between Stephen Gosson and Thomas Lodge, which included significant discussion of music, had been printed only three years before Batman’s translation of Bartholomeus. Church of England clergyman John Northbrooke’s (fl. 1567–1589) indictment of “idle pastimes . . . reproved by the Authoritie of the word of God and auncient writers,” replete with condemnation of relevant musics, had appeared two years before those.59 Like so many works of this sort, Batman’s provides a sense of active participation in an urgent, timely debate. The reader is thereby invited into this dialectical fray and to help restore music to its proper place in the moral life. Batman begins his section by acknowledging the ongoing discussion and referencing the extreme judgments rendered by unnamed others: Concerning the straunge opinions in the world of Musicke . . . I have thought good (so farre as the eternall license shall permit or suffer) somewhat to speake thereof: The occasion is, yt wheras many cannot away at all with Musick, as if it were some odious skill: ranged from hell, rather stirred up by Divells, then revealed by Angels: some are indifferent, and can abide it better in the chamber of Venus, then in the temple of Minerva, and some do so far dote in musicke, without the which they think ther is no religion, that betweene these undifferent judgmentes, I am in doubt to speak . . . concluding yt if Musick be the ordinance of God, as al other gifts of nature are, then how commeth it to passe, that .7. artes, tearmed liberall, are allowed, wherof Musick hath ben account of ye number one, except the late 8. art of Adulation, beeing placed in Musicks roome, be allowed for ye seventh.60

Like a shorter version of The Praise of Musicke, Batman’s discussion leads to the “sober and lawful” use of music “in the congregation and Church of God.”61 It carefully brings the reader to a path of moderation wherein music

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has a number of distinct places. The author also steers a careful course between condemnation of the tacit and undeniably ignorant antimusical faction and appearing to legitimate Catholic practice: Seeing then that the holye Scriptures in the newe Testament condempne not musicke, (but onlye the abusers thereof ), what reason, or what authoritye is there left why Musicke shoulde not bee used with song in anye place convenient, if so bee it bee not hurtfull, in the Kinges presence, Chappell, or Oratorye, in Cathedrall Churches some where, or what offence, else where. It maye bee that some will aunswere unto me, and saye, that Musicke in those places is Poperye. But I demaunde agayne, where was the knowledge of Poperye when David praysed the Lorde with it, when the Apostle Paule knew of it, and when saint John from heaven hearde it. If it bee so (that Musick, as it hath ben in very deede too much abused) in these our later times, shall it therefore for that abuse be utterly banished and put aside, which wyll stand with as good a reason, as when a man hath stolen a horse, the Lawe shall hang his soule: yet who is so ignorant, the fact being committed, but that both bodye and soule is [sic] present.62

The rhythm of oration is present in Batman’s language and syntax, the voice of his presumed opponent(s) framing his argument. As with virtually all defenders of the art, Batman acknowledges that it has been abused by some. And again, the good and godly music of the moral life must not be conflated with that other evil sort: These instruments & other ceremonies which they observed [in the time of the Old Testament] were instructions of their infancie, which continued to ye comming of Christ. . . . [I]f then there should have ben a finall end of Musicke, why is it not absolutely forbidde[n][?] . . . [I]f Musicke be but a sound, no more is the voice, it is better to heare good & godly Musicke, then ribalde and filthye talke, or a Christian Psalme then a wicket sonet. Seeing yt Musicke . . . is not allowed by the old Testament, as many affirme, because, as they saye, she had her continuance but until ye comming of Christ: yet from the time of Samuel, untill the time of Jesus Christ, it largely appeareth she was in estimation, & although the superstitious pagans & Idolatrous Gentiles, having the same instruments yt the Godly had (with the which they committed their abhominations) this notwithstanding was no defiling nor disabling of ye Musicke which ye Prophet David used.63

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The musical section of Phillip Stubbes’s much-­cited Anatomie of Abuses, published the following year, can hardly contrast more. Where Batman writes as an intellectual’s intellectual, Stubbes speaks to as wide an audience as any popular playwright. Unlike Batman, Stubbes was not ordained and did not preach within the Anglican Church. However, he did belong to the class of semiprofessional writers who imitated the homiletic discourse of the London clergy.64 Stubbes is alleged to have been “nourst up onely at Grammer schoole,” although it was later claimed that he had studied briefly at both Cambridge and Oxford.65 Where it is well documented that Batman served men who moved in the highest national cultural and theological circles, Stubbes remains a shadowy figure whose wide range of literary dedicatees—­ including godly Protestant magistrates, assorted gentry, and an alleged traitor with Catholic sympathies—provide no evidence of his possible intellectual or social networks. For all of Stubbes’s infamy among literary and historical scholars since the nineteenth century, little is actually known of the man. He has been most simply described as a “pamphleteer” and “hack writer,” often with “Puritan” leanings, and is best known to modern scholars for his contribution to the era’s antitheatrical writings.66 Close examination of his works reveals no clear identification with any particular antiestablishment sect. Stubbes was fundamentally a populist reformer, a sober Protestant revisionist who sought to improve the moral quality of everyday life for his countrymen and their families. He did not write to enable the reader to make sounder intellectual judgments about music but to have a spiritually healthier life. Stubbes’s discussion is typical of those most often considered puritanical and antimusical, as shown by its strongly moralizing tone and harsh attitude toward those secular musical practices that involve the largest number of participants, the greatest amount of multimedia performativity, the most bodily engagement, and the least reference to the sorts of musics referred to in the Old and New Testaments.67 The full title of his most famous work, published on October 12, 1583, is The Anatomie of Abuses: Containing A Discoverie, or briefe Summarie of such Notable Vices and Corruptions, as nowe raigne in many Christian Countreyes of the Worlde: but (especially) in the Countrey of AILGNA: Together, with most fearefull Examples of Gods Judgementes, executed upon the wicked for the same, aswel in AILGNA of late, as in other places, elsewhere.68 It is dedicated “to the Right Honorable, Phillip [Howard,] Earle of Arundell,” a Cambridge-­ educated noble who had serious doubts about the rightness of mainstream Anglican thought and practice and who, not long after the publication of Stubbes’s book, was suspected of treasonable Catholic religious and political

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sympathies. He officially converted to Roman Catholicism in 1584.69 The evident lack of intersection between Howard’s and Stubbes’s agendas and their ultimate sectarian loyalties only serves to underscore the Elizabethan era’s extraordinary intellectual and theological fluidity. This was the nebulous background against which music was discussed, debated, and alternately reviled or reclaimed for the righteous. In contrast to Batman’s authoritative delivery of medieval Latin learning to a modern vernacular audience, Stubbes proffers his pamphlet in the lurid language of the sensational moralizing ballad, the lowest common denominator of popular entertainment. Its rhetoric reflects the populist sermon with its direct instructions and exemplary division of virtue from vice. Set in the fictitious country of Ailgna, the work, in classic dialogic form, quite literally emphasizes the backwardness of England (Anglia) while protecting its writer from extreme forms of censorship. Like Batman, Stubbes gives the reader the sense that music is presently much debated and that he seeks to restore the art to its proper place in Christian life. He, too, wishes to declare the sober and lawful use of music in sacred devotion and to assist his reader in sifting through correct and incorrect inferences about the art. Like Batman, he draws on classical and biblical thought. However, he cites fewer authorities, and the majority of his points are made in his own (or his main interlocutor’s) voice. It is not his purpose to help the reader make learned arguments about music. Instead, Stubbes has a far more urgent and immediate agenda of social reform in the face of depravity and moral danger. His emphasis is more on what Batman disparages at the beginning of his discussion: a condemnation of the “odious skill” of music, the music “ranged from hell” or at least capable of condemning its listeners eternally thereto. Where Batman impresses the reader with his cool logic and command of Western wisdom concerning music, Stubbes emphasizes the clear dichotomy between the moral and the immoral capacities of the art. Like the oral literatures of balladry, the theater, or the pulpit, he uses language with vivid immediacy. Stubbes leads the reader as much by sound and style as by content. He never names his Christian authorities. Instead, he renders their directives into universal truths that every Christian should have internalized. The reader is drawn into a miniature morality drama and given graphic indications of his fate should he succumb to the dangerous appeal of music. The lessons and rhythms of the vernacular Bible merge with authorities of the best-­loved classical philosophers to toy with fear of the loss of masculine authority and control. This is not writing for the self-­styled intellectual but for a wider, and perhaps more impressionable, readership.

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Music is primarily covered in a section headed “Of Musicke in Ailgna, and how it allureth to vanitie,” immediately recalling the biblical book of Ecclesiastes and its opening message in the words of the Preacher, son of King David, that all things under the sun are vain and deceitful. Stubbes’s chapter title further reminds readers that worldly vanity was a favorite topos across media and confessional divides during the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.70 Any sense of the gathering of commonplaces is rendered secondary to the author’s lurid message. From the outset, Stubbes, through the voice of his interlocutor Philoponus, threatens the uninhibited music lover with physical and spiritual illness: Philo[ponus]. I saie of Musicke, as Plato, Aristotle, Galen, and many others said of it, that it is very ill for yong heades, for a certaine kinde of smooth sweetnesse in it, alluring ye auditorie to effeminacie, pussilanimitie, and lothsomnesse of life, muche like unto Honey and such other sweete Conserves received into the stomake, doth delight at the first, but afterwarde maketh the stomacke quasie, and unable to receive meate of harde digesture. So sweet Musicke, at first delighteth the eares, but afterward corrupteth and depraveth the minde, making it quasie, and inclined to all licentiousnesse of life whatsoever. And right as good edges are not sharpned (but obtused) by beyng whetted uppon soft Stones, so good wittes by hearing soft Musicke, are rather dulled then sharpned, and made apt to all wantonnesse and sinne. And therefore Writers affirme Sappho to have been expert in Musicke, and therefore Whorishe. Tyrus Maximus saieth: The bringyng in of Musicke, was a cup of poyson to all the worlde. Clyomachus, if he ever heard any talkyng of Love, or plaiyng of Musicall Instrumentes, would runne his waie and bidde them farewell. Pluterchus, compalineth of Musicke, & saith, that it doeth rather femenine the mynde as prickes unti vice, then conduce to godlines as spurres to Vartue. Pithagoras, condemneth them for fooles, and bequeathes them a Cloke bagge, that measure Musicke by sound and eare. Thus you heare the judgment of the wise, concernyng Musicke, now judge thereof as you list your self.71

Through the rhetorical style of lecturer to learner, of demonstration of inescapable conclusions drawn from the four favored ancient authorities on music plus a few additionally memorable opinions, the reader, like the dia-

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logue’s other participant, is dared to disagree. Where Batman addresses the reader’s intellectual capacity, Stubbes literally goes to the gut: the digestive faculties and the mysterious bodily workings that determine the outward manifestations of gender and sexuality. The music of pleasure and danger is described in terms of taste, the lowest of the five senses. This music emasculates. This music replaces that which is hard and sharp with that which is soft and passive. Music, which is insubstantial but leaves a tangible effect on bodies, synesthetically becomes ear candy, poisoning the system and leaving it open to everything good Christian men were taught to fear most. It is likened to erotic love, its expert performance to whoredom. Without citing a single source on the use of instruments in church, let alone a history of the practice, Stubbes positions them in the realm of immorality. If the music of corporeality is evil, that which is produced from inanimate bodies and extends sensual delight is worse. Even as Spudaeus, the other interlocutor, takes the bait to reiterate the classic counterargument “that Musicke doeth delight both man and beast, reviveth the Spirites, comforteth the harte, and maketh it apter to the service of God,” Philoponus continues with his rhetoric of dissolution and depravity. The conclusion remains clear. The wrong sort of music, in the wrong context—the music that pleases the senses so much that it crosses from the ear to other physical receptors—invades, inflames, sickens, weakens, and transgenders: Philo[ponus]. I grau[n]t Musicke is a good gift of God, and that it delighteth bothe man and beaste, reviveth the spirits, comforteth the hart, and maketh it redier to serve God, and therefore did David bothe use Musicke hymselfe, and also commende the use of it to his posteritie (and beeyng used to that end, for mans privat recreation, Musicke is very laudable.) But beeyng used in publique assemblies and private conventicles, as a directorie to filthie Dauncyng, through the sweete harmonie and smoothe melodie thereof, it estraungeth the minde, stirreth up filthie lust, wommanish the mynde, ravisheth the harte, enflameth concupiscence, and bryngeth in uncleannesse. But if Musicke were used ope[n]ly (as I have said) to the praise and glorie of God, as our Fathers used it, and as was intended by it at the first, or privately in a mans secret Chamber or house for his owne solace and comforte, to drive awaie the fantasies of idle thoughtes, solicitude, care, sorrowe, and such other perturbations and molestations of the mynde, (the onely endes whereto true Musicke tends), it were very commendable and tollerable. If Musicke were

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thus used, it would comforte man wonderfully, and move his harte to serve God the better; but being used as it is, it corrupteth good myndes, maketh them wommanishe, and inclined to all kinde of Whoredome and mischeefe.72

Rhetorically, good and godly music is simpler and less interesting than the music of corruption, whoredom, and effeminacy. There is no reference to style, which is accorded less importance than context and effect on the listener/performer. Stubbes briefly passes over the conventional arguments in favor of music, already well articulated for an English readership in Hoby’s translation of Castiglione’s Libro del cortegiano.73 His emphasis is on summarizing over a millennium of Christian musical thought, and his lack of reference to sources gives the old-­fashioned, heart-­felt, and healing “Musicke . . . to the praise and glorie of God” a timeless, instinctive quality. Again, music in the wrong context, the music of public secular entertainment, sickens. Vital organs, and the delicate balance between immortal soul and corruptible body, are invaded, inflamed, alienated, disrupted. Stubbes goes on to condemn the oral musics of the unlettered professionals brought up through the apprenticeship system, the musics of taverns, alehouses, inns, and other secular gathering places. Even within his lurid enumeration of the lax morals of such individuals, Stubbes finds the opportunity to remind the reader that music emasculates and destroys chastity—no small threat in an era in which sex was not set chromosomally for life and a woman’s worth was largely measured by premarital virginity and chaste wifehood: if you would have your sonne, softe, wommanishe, uncleane, smothe mouthed, affected to baudrie, scurrilitie, filthie Rimes, & insemely talkying: breefly, if you would have hym, as it were transnatured into a woman, or worse, and inclined to all kinde of Whoredome, and abhomination, set hym to Dauncing schoole, and to learne Musicke, and then shall you not faile of your purpose. And if you would have your daughter Whorishe, baudie, and uncleane, and a filthie speaker, and suche like, bryng her up in Musicke and Dauncyng, and my life for yours, you have wone the goale.74

This “Whoredom, and abhomination” perhaps represent the ultimate danger not only to the Christian life but more immediately to English manhood and womanhood. Stubbes’s lurid prognostications about youthful training in music serve as a reminder that, in sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century thought, excessive participation in activities considered delicate, sensitive,

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emotive, or self-­indulgent caused a blurring of gender lines and a dissolution of gender distinction. This was especially the case before male maturation, when boys and women remained, in Shakespeare’s terms, “cattle of [the same] color.”75 Rhetorically and dialectically, Stubbes’s libidinous references are far from Batman’s similarly evocative “chamber of Venus.” They are not matters of intellectual distinction among “variable minds” but an immediate corporeal threat to the individual, the family, and the natural order. Both Stubbes and Batman, and many of their contemporaries, ultimately draw from the antivoluptuary ideals of early Christianity in which sensual delight in music merges with sexual arousal and with pagan error. The body of the Christian and the body of the church are equally threatened with loss of manly, rational control and with concomitant effeminization. Unregulated pleasure was thus by degrees associable with the ungovernable, the erotic, and the damnable, from inappropriate sexual attraction to the “singing of Ballads (that was rife in Poperie).”76

Anxieties of Aurality and Homonymies of Love The richly evocative language of carnal pleasure had served Christian metaphysics as a homiletic warning from long before Stubbes’s day just as it had heightened devotional narratives. The storehouse of examples available to musical disputants was almost endless. The idea that sensory stimuli such as sound and music were capable of provoking response throughout the somatic system, including its manifest gender, its sexual urges, and its very integrity, was rooted in polyvalent signification as old as Western thought. Modern cognitive theory and philosophy of mind have emphasized that metaphysical meaning originates in bodily epistemologies and are from there expressed in language. Mental imagery from sensorineural domains is most directly applied to subjective experience through metaphor. This system of categorization relies on shared phenomenological experiences, including those that govern our bodies, their senses, physical objects, and interactions with the environment.77 “There is no trope more flourishing tha[n] a Metaphore, especially if it be applied to the senses,” wrote poet Abraham Fraunce in an introductory rhetorical manual from 1588.78 His contemporary Peacham the Elder takes the idea even further by explaining that the primary instance of this trope occurs when “we translate a word from the sences of the body to the thinges in the mind.”79 Yet the separation of mind from body is itself a meta-

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phor. Spiritual experience is thus rooted in corporeality, a consequence of the myriad ways in which our minds and bodies work together. And those minds are not merely embodied. They are also recognized by cognitive linguist George Lakoff and philosopher Mark Johnson as being “passionate, desiring, and social.”80 St. Paul’s first letter to the Corinthians perhaps encapsulates this principle most succinctly for Christian readers from the early years of the Church through Stubbes’s time and beyond: “But as it is written, The things which eye hath not seene, neither eare hath heard, neither came into man’s heart, are, which God hath prepared for them that love him.”81 This powerful affective bond between creature and creator ultimately incorporated the full range of bodily metaphors for love, from gentle nurturance to raw sexuality. In the Western tradition, eroticism has long been assigned a boundless emotional capacity as well as a destructive aspect. Both arise from the material sensuality by which we conceive the world. The multisensory and spiritual complexities of eroticism, in contrast to simple animal coupling, have rendered it a religious matter even as metaphors of deification figure prominently in Western tropes of romantic attachment.82 From the later Middle Ages through the seventeenth century, descriptions of spiritual experience came to rely more than ever on the body, particularly its capacities for giving and receiving love.83 “GOD is Love, and the Holy Ghost is amorous in his Metaphors,” preached John Donne to his king in 1626.84 One of the most common Western metaphors for the mediation between subject and object of knowledge is sexual consummation, as early modern populist writers such as Stubbes use to such striking effect. Modern cognitive science and philosophy further emphasize that without the body’s capacity for intense desire, pleasure, pain, joy, and remorse, spirituality remains dull. Intimate sexual behavior, metonymically tied to romantic love, often represents it, further enhanced by parallel metonyms of hunger and physical proximity. For this reason, sex, along with visual imagery, music, touch, taste, and smell, has served the expression of human spiritual experience across religious and cultural lines.85 Sixteenthand seventeenth-­century English thinkers were well aware of this range of sensuous metaphors, especially erotic and acoustic phenomena, in service of the divine. Donne completes his reference to the holy ghost’s amorous metaphors with an interplay between sex, music, food, and the intimate cocoon of the bridal bed: “everie where his Scriptures abound with the notions of Love, of Spouse, and Husband, and Marriadge Songs, and Marriadge Supper, and Marriadge-­Bedde.”86 Thirty-­three years earlier, Peacham the Elder, also a minister, had uniquely ascribed to the sense of hearing the metaphorical

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capacity “not so much serving to signifie the powers of the mind, as to ex­ pr[e]sse the affections of the heart.”87 Early modern affective metaphors of hearing went beyond marriage songs, reviving the spirit, feminizing the mind, or softening the listener to receive divine wisdom. With a shape that suggests the female genitalia, and status as the only human sense receptor that lacks a mechanism to reject stimulus, the ear was figured as a privileged portal to the interior faculties. It thus became a locus for metaphorical conception, enlightenment, and spiritual union with direct conduit to heart and soul. Doctor of Divinity Robert Wilkinson’s sermon on hearing reiterates that even forgetful hearers “conceive presently, and for a time are touched inwardly.”88 The observance of Lady Day each March 25, start of the new year in the early modern era, reminded participants that the Virgin Mary was said to have conceived Christ through her ear.89 Church of England clergyman Edward Topsell (1572?–­1625) reiterated in his 1607 moralizing bestiary the ancient tradition that weasels were believed to copulate through the ear and give birth by mouth. To the Christian reader this “strange” process represented oral reiteration of things learned by ear.90 “Hearing is the organ of understanding,” pronounces poet and prose writer Richard Brathwaite (1587/1588–1673) in a 1625 book on the five senses: “by it we conceive . . . so knowledge [has] her essence by the accent of the eare.”91 Conventional figures of speech in aural genres ask for surrender of the listener’s ear as a prelude to spiritual union or shared understanding: “Incline thine ear to me,” “Give ear to me,” “Lend me your ears,” “Give ear.”92 “Then faith is by hearing,” says the epistle of St. Paul to the Romans (italics in the original).93 Yet the vulnerable ear could also be taken unwillingly, a portal for corruption as much as life-­affirming entities. For Shakespeare, the ear is a site for literal and metaphorical “poison” and “pestilence” that lead to tragedy and violent death in Hamlet and Othello. When Lady Macbeth fears that her husband’s nature “is too full o’ th’ Milke of humane kindnesse,” she extends the metaphor of gender reversal by vowing to “powre [her] Spirits in [his] Eare.” In Cymbeline, Cloten leaves no doubt about the sort of love he expects music to procure from Imogen. His address to his hired musicians cloaks the subtle metaphor of ear as pathway to the heart with the crude suggestion of (gang) rape: Cloten. I would this musicke would come. I am advised to give her music a mornings; they say it will penetrate. Enter Musitians.

70  Chapter two

Come on, tune: If you can penetrate her with your fingering, so: wee’ll try with tongue too. If none will do, let her remaine, but I’ll never give o’re.94

Through this web of signification, sound and especially music were brought into rhetorical alliance with the erotic and its sometimes disconcerting extensions into the interior self and all things divine. Stubbes, Shakespeare, Topsell, and Wilkinson especially invoke the phallic and potentially transformative power of sound as it enters the ear. Most artificial and delicate object of the sense of hearing, music was linked to passivity, femininity, and emotionality.95 These qualities were associated with excessive love, sacred as well as profane. Inherited metaphors for music, as we have seen, attributed to the art the capacities to pierce, penetrate, inflame, arouse, poison, and soften or effeminate. Yet music was undeniably a divine gift. Stubbes’s vivid juxtaposition of the spiritual benefits and corporeal horrors of music shocks with its graphic images of invasion and dissolution of mental and physical faculties. These are reinforced by the kind of warning Shakespeare provides about the dangers of unguarded aurality and the suggestion in Cymbeline that even the most seemingly innocuous musical ritual could be undertaken with ill intent. Many statements across the intellectual and cultural spectrum of early modern England reveal anxiety about the sensuality of sound and music, especially their capacity to disrupt the somatic system in the same manner as deadly poison—or unchecked erotic desire. The process began with sensory surrender and dissociation from the powers of the mind. “But this contentment of my flesh [through music], (unto which it is not fit to give over my soule to bee effeminated:)” says St. Augustine in Anglican clergyman William Watts’s (ca. 1590–1649) 1631 translation, “doeth very oft beguile mee; when . . . the sence goes not so respectfully along with the reason.”96 In consideration of this sort of sentiment, the ever-­ reasonable Batman replies, But why Musicke seemeth so to rap[e] men in a manner wholye, the reason is plaine, for there are certaine pleasures, which onely fill the outward sences, and there are others also which perteine only to the mind or reason. But musicke is a delectation so put in the middest, that both by the sweetnesse of the sounds, it moveth the sences, & by the artificialnesse of the number & proportion, it delighteth reason it self.97

Music became particularly dangerous or efficacious, depending on its context and the writer’s perspective, because of the impossibility of controlling these

Debating Godly Music  71

effects or keeping sense and reason in healthy equilibrium. Conventional Western binary thought has long separated sacred from secular by marking the former with awe, intoxicating frenzy, and a sense of the alien.98 These dissociative qualities were among the targets of successive English religious reforms, and it is no coincidence that they are the very tendencies of music most hotly debated in Christian context. The “rape” Batman attributes to music on the basis of its capacity to invade and overwhelm sense and spirit was a more complex concept in the early modern era than it has since become. Its etymological derivation was recognized in the sixteenth century to come from the classical Latin verb rapere, meaning “to take awaie by violence; not after everie maner of sort, but as it were by a certeine furie and great violence.” According to a 1583 translation of Vermigli’s Common Places, the term rape principally connoted in sacred context “the violent taking awaie of things moveable: yet nevertheless not of all, but of mens bodies, that are violently taken awaie for lusts sake,” a crime especially perpetrated against women by men. Rape retained this sense in English law, for which records reveal similar emphasis on loss and violence above specific bodily acts. Yet two other English words are also rooted in the same Latin verb: rapture and ravish. The meanings of all three continued through the early modern era to overlap with each other as well as with the sense of rapere as theft and plunder. The first English-­language mass-­market dictionaries therefore ascribe a wider range of meanings to rape unified by the sense of removal by savage force. These extend from “a violent ravishing of a woman against her will” to an ecstasy, a transport, and a snatching away from one place to another.99 In the realm of metaphor formation by which music was accorded an irresistible power to enter and afflict the somatic system through an unprotected aperture, to transform men to women, and to reach between mortal and eternal realms, the darker and more potent aspects of music as love are brought into sharp relief through all these senses of rape. Lakoff and Johnson emphasize that rape metaphors arise from the trope of sexuality as a force. This in turn conflates metaphors of love as sexuality and as loss of self-­control, including rapture and madness. With particular applicability to the ancient metaphor of ear as portal to the interior faculties, Roland Barthes notes that anything is likely to “ravish” him which can reach him “through a ring, a rip, a rent.”100 The metaphor of rape/rapture/ravishment provided early modern music with the capacity to sever soul from body, to sublimate, to entrance, to harm, to leave vulnerable, or to confer wisdom from beyond the confines of ordinary experience. It was further connected to the concept of ecstasy,

72  Chapter two

defined in a 1656 English vernacular dictionary as “a trance, swooning, or astonishment, a ravishment or transport of the spirit by passion.”101 By any name, this is the capacity of music for which The Praise of Musicke pleads so powerfully at its conclusion for continued use in Christian worship. It is what Coryate claims to have experienced in Venice as he was “rapt up” by music to St. Paul’s third heaven (2 Cor. 12:2–4) among strangers who were similarly ravished and stunned. Ravenscroft reminds readers of his eminently practical Briefe Discourse on performable music that this “Enthusiasme or ravishing of the Spirit” had been considered a principal power of the art by ancient philosophy. In one of the best-­selling English books of the seventeenth century, Burton concurs that music “is so powerful a thing, that it ravisheth the Soule, regina semsuum, the Queene of the sences, by sweet pleasure . . . and carries it beyond it selfe, helps, elevates, extends it.”102 A generation later, Meric Casaubon (1599–1671), Doctor of Divinity, accorded “musical Enthusiasms” their own classification in his treatise on such elevation beyond corporeal confines.103 Thomas Tomkins cleverly expresses these ideas in his setting of the “Hymn” (anthem) “Above the Stars my Saviour Dwells,” printed about a decade after Casaubon’s treatise. As the countertenor concludes the first of two sequentially rising commands to “ravish my soul,” sweetly parallel celeritously upward motion in the organ part seems to respond as if carrying it beyond itself and even the rationality of human language (ex. 2.1).104 Sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century English writers were especially concerned about this ability of music to sever soul from body and induce trance states, which had powerful roots in inherited intellectual traditions but lay increasingly outside of mainstream native religious practices. Such rapture, ecstasy, enthusiasm, or ravishment of the soul had been a core tenet of ancient mystery religions and early Neoplatonic thought, echoed in the Bible, debated by patristics, supported by Thomas Aquinas, and adapted by Agrippa and Marsilio Ficino, among others. By the turn of the seventeenth century, however, it was associated in England with witchcraft, demonic magic, Catholic mysticism, superstition, and, as the century wore on, with radical and heretical native Christian sects.105 In a society of surprising and often uneasy religious pluralism, there is noteworthy obsession with musical soul loss and concomitant moral degradation. Across the spectrum of early modern English musical discourse, there is consistent emphasis on the rapturous potential of music to raise sensuous participation to violent invasion, frenzy, and involuntary surrender of self. The storehouse of commonplaces reiterated that music pierced, raped, ravished, softened, and overcame the heart and bodily defenses.106 Narrative descriptions of the art’s effects often merge

Debating Godly Music  73

From 'Above the Stars my Saviour dwells' Thomas Tomkins

b

Countertenor

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thy joyes,

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with

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thy joyes

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thy joyes,

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ww ] [w ] w

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Example 2.1 Setting of “Ravish my soul” from Thomas Tomkins, “Above the Stars my Saviour Dwells,” Musica Deo Sacra (1668).

reference to the sense of hearing with synesthetic suggestions of divine light or the senses of touch and taste. Even a 1596 self-­tutor for the would-­be recreational musician promised to fulfill the purchaser’s “desire to have a taste of so ravishing a sweet science as Musique.”107 Music led the attentive listener away from the body and earthly travail, but in so doing it potentially endangered self-­integrity. The Praise of Musicke

74  Chapter two

carefully demolishes its ideological opponents before introducing the historic ability of the art to divide soul from body and elevate cogitation through worship. The Elizabethan theologian and philosopher Richard Hooker (1554– 1600) carefully surrounds this capacity “Of Musique with Psalmes” with reassuring verbal qualifiers. Only some kinds of music briefly “carryeth [us] as it were into extasies, filling the minde with an heavenly joy and for the time in a manner severing it from the body,” he says. In contrast, the slightly older schoolmaster and educational theorist Richard Mulcaster (1531/1532–1611) provides a lurid summation of the dissociative dangers attributed to sacred music before his rhetorical punch that “Musick will not harm thee [or] miscary thee if thy eares can carie it, and sort it as it should be.” The menace is not in the music but in surrender of self to pleasure. Mulcaster merges imagery from Christian context with pagan myth and witchcraft. There is no question that self-­integrity is stolen through the ear and that, without proper vigilance, the mind or soul is left unmoored in a treacherous universe: And in matters of religion also, to some [music] seems offensive, bycause it carryeth awaye the eare, with the sweetnesse of the melodie, and bewitcheth the minde with a Syrenes sounde, pulling it from that delite, wherein of duetie it ought to dwell, unto harmonicall fantasies, and withdrawing it, from the best meditations, and most virtuous thoughtes to forreine conceites and wandring devises.108

An anonymous manuscript commonplace book in the Folger Shakespeare Library summarizes the situation most succinctly: music “inciteth to devotyon and intyceth to dissolucon.”109 Josua Poole’s seventeenth-­century guide to “Rhyming Monosyllables, the choicest Epithets, and Phrases” presents a word list for modifying music that reads like notes toward the sort of zealous diatribe Stubbes might have envied: “heart-­ravishing, soul-­invading, raping, entrancing, sense-­ bereaving, inchanting, encharming, wanton, fancy-­tickling, intrancing, delicious, ravishing, soul-­raping.”110 Here, we see a simple distillation of the words most often applied to music’s ability to dissolve bonds between body and soul, to soften or effeminate the manly intellect, to invade the body through the ear and snatch away the consciousness with great violence. “The cause of this is in us a continuall contemplation of sublime things,” says Agrippa in a mid-­seventeenth-­century English translation, “which as far as it conjoyns with a most profound intension of the mind, the soul to incorporeal wisdom, doth so far recall it self with its vehement

Debating Godly Music  75

agitations from things sensible and the body, and . . . in such a manner sometimes, that it even flieth out of the body, and seemeth as it were dissolved.”111 This sort of rapture, broadly linked through language to soul theft, ravishment, rape, frenzy, furor, lust, and its close linguistic analogue of overwhelming joy, appears again and again in arguments about music pro and contra.112 After all, its intellectual lineage was ancient and bore the stamp of Plato, Augustine, and over a thousand years of commonplace wisdom. The figuration of the sacred through the sensuous gained increasing traction during the early modern era as writers from all shades of the Christian spectrum returned to the Church Fathers and centuries of exegesis for their commonplaces. By the turn of the seventeenth century, intellectual language throughout Europe and across disciplines emphasized the nonvisibility of meaning through lush metaphors evoking all five senses. The proliferation of elementary vernacular rhetorical manuals such as those by Fraunce and Peacham encouraged wider understanding and reuse of such metaphors. In a mid-­seventeenth-­century theological tract, minister and religions writer Richard Baxter (1615–1691) explains that “there is yet another way by which we may make our senses here serviceable to us; and that is, By comparing the objects of sense with the objects of faith; and so forcing sense to afford us that Medium, from whence we may conclude the transcendent worth of Glory.”113 Lucas Trelcatius’s Jacobean Common Places of Divinity perhaps explains the situation even better: “For, of the actions by God in every Sacrament prescribed . . . comming unto our outward senses, propose to our mindes, other things altogether spirituall, and heavenly, that they might be understood, and by faith sealed up.”114 However, music was no mere metaphor. To a culture that emphasized aurality as a pathway to knowledge and unity, it remained a pragmatic art with definite place in the sacred service, in personal devotion, and in pastimes of all sorts. Music was truly a delectation between the outward senses and the mind or reason, and therefore it enabled communication between the two. “And I think hee hath not a minde well temper’d, whose zeale is not inflamed by a heavenly Anthem,” observes moralist Owen Feltham (1602?–­1668), who elsewhere condemns the art as more suitable for women than for men, more suitable for courtesans than honest women, because of its power to inflame bodily spirits and the impressionable mind.115 Within early modern English culture, music had the distinction of providing a pathway to ecstasy through a paradoxically worldly pleasure. Just as music came to be used in its own defense in the general praise-­ and-­dispraise tradition, it was brought to engage with questions of acceptable

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Christian use at the hotly contested intersection between body and soul, sensation and transcendence, desire and dissolution. In 1622, Tomkins, then “Organist of his Majesties Chappell Royall in Ordinary,” published a collection of Songs of 3. 4. 5. and 6. Parts. Its texts cover a range of devotional and amorous matters, for some of which the composer apologizes, following a fashion designed to sell books to the widest possible consumership: For the lightnesse of some of the words, I can onely pleade and olde (but ill) custome, which I wish were abrogated: Although the Songs of these Bookes will be even in that point, sutable to all the people of the world, wherein the rich and poore, sound and lame, sad and fantasticall, dwell together.116

Among the contents stands a song for six voices whose anonymous text and old-­fashioned compositional style defy easy categorization as grave or light and further remind careful listeners that anthems and madrigals could use the same expressive musical devices. The anonymous poem “Musicke Devine” crosses between mundane and celestial realms, recalling that many spaces beyond the church were as suitable for Christian devotion and meditation as for other uses. Tomkins dedicated the piece to lay clerk and fellow Chapel musician “Mr. Doctor [William] Heather” (sometimes “Heyther”), who had been awarded the doctor of music degree from Oxford in May of that year and who later founded the Oxford lectureship in music.117 Perhaps more importantly, the collection in which “Musicke Devine” appears is dedicated “To the Right Honorable William Earle of Pembroke, Lord Herbert of Cardiffe . . . and one of his Majesties most Honorable Privie Councell,” whom the composer praises for his “often frequenting and favourable attention to the Musicke in the Chappell, which useth sometimes to raise the soule above her Companions, Flesh and Bloud.”118 Tomkins’s position on music and musically induced rapture could not be more clear. At first “Musicke Devine” seems a throwback to an earlier era (see exx. 2.2– 2.5 below). Its madrigalian style especially contrasts with the most widely circulating English sacred musical genre of its day, the metrical psalms available in so many editions for use in church or home. In spite of its subject, “Musicke Devine” is almost paradoxically intended for personal recreation. Its text renders it unsuitable for the divine service. Its compositional style is marked by the variable polyphonic textures and imitative voice leading that had been all the rage in the heyday of the English madrigal some twenty-­five years earlier. The song hovers between modality and tonality and relies on word-­painting

Debating Godly Music  77

to express the literal meaning of its text. However, within an intellectual context as formulaic as a schoolboy’s exercise and as lurid as a well-­crafted sermon, the piece acquires greater depth. The text simply outlines a problem that vexed thinkers on all sides of the era’s debates over the appropriate sacred use of the most deeply sensual of the arts: Musicke devine, proceeding from above, Whose sacred subject often times is Love, In this appeares her heavenly Harmony Where tunefull concords sweetly doe agree. And yet in this her slander is unjust, To call that Love, which is indeed but Lust.119

Its uneasy union between sacred and secular, its evocation of the translucent line between love and lust, and its suggestion of slander of the composer’s art all recall the formal praise of music and the call to defend the art, especially in Christian context. In contrast to Watson’s “gratification” for a full-­length print encomium (fig. 1.1), this brief poem does not pin detractors’ ideas on ignorance or poor practice, nor does it refer to any specific prose text. This one confronts core cultural anxieties about music expressed by its detractors. Its last two lines draw attention to music as the medium that most directly bridged the heavenly realm and bodily urge as well as to the wrongness of arguments against it on this basis. In contrast to the Byrd-­East-­Watson collaboration for the same number of voices, Tomkins’s piece does not simply end with a musical-­textual commonplace on the power of music. It becomes a real response to the long-­standing debates that occasionally condemned the art for its dangerous call to sensory excess and sometimes threatened its place in Christian ritual practice. Following the Platonic allegory of heavenly and earthly Venus, most early modern thinkers separated love from lust. “There are two kyndes of Love: the one Natural, and the other Heavenlye,” explains William Baldwin (died in or before 1563) in a commonplace explication “of Love, luste, and lecherye.”120 The latter led on a Christianized Platonic path toward union with the divine. Its opposite, lust or lechery, was “beastly & earthly.” It dulled the senses, weakened the mind, consumed bodily strength and beauty, and left nothing but destruction.121 Writers on practical music were equally aware of the distinction, especially in relation to generic compositional techniques and relative “lightnesse” of texts. When the master in Morley’s Plaine and Easie Intro-

78  Chapter two

duction to Practicall Musicke explains that a nature inclined to love leads many composers, including priests, to excel in the wanton pleasures of “Madrigals, Canzonets, and other such ayreable musicke,” Polymathes replies, “You play upon the Homonymie of the word Love, for in that they be inclined to lust, therein I see no reason why they should be commended.”122 The challenge of separating love from lust in sounding music—as old as St. Augustine and as current as the musical disputants who rediscovered the Church Fathers and their suspicion of the sensual delight of audition—is handled with wit and skill by Tomkins. The composer’s choice to treat as a madrigal a poem on the unjustified slander of sacred love in music demonstrates the indefinite boundary between earthbound arousal through hearing and divine inspiration and ecstasy through audible music. It also toys with questions of textuality and musical style. Morley reminds us of the audible connection his culture and Tomkins’s heard between the madrigal and “tempests and turmoils of love” manifest in the compositional techniques that defined the genre. “The more variety of points bee shewed in one song,” he explains to those who would compose madrigals, the more is the Madrigal esteemed, and withall you must bring in fine bindinges and strange closes according as the words of your Dittie shal move you . . . and this is the cause that the parts of a Madrigal either of five or sixe parts go sometimes full, sometimes very single, sometimes jumping together, and sometime quite contrarie waies, like unto the passion which they expresse, for as you schollers say that this love is ful of hopes and feares, so is the Madrigall or lovers musicke full of diversitie of passions and ayres.123

Furthermore, he distinguishes the madrigal from the motet, which he defines as “a song made for the church either upon some hymne or Antheme, or such like,” by telling the would-­be composer that As for the musick [of the madrigal] it is next unto the Motet, the most artificiall and to men of understanding most delightful. If therefore you will compose in this kind you must possesse your selfe with an amorous humour (for in no co[m]position shal you prove admirable except you put on, and possesse your selfe wholy with that vaine wherein you compose) so that you must in your musicke be wavering like the wind, sometime wanton, sometime drooping, sometime grave and staide, otherwhile effeminat . . . and shew the verie uttermost of your varietie, and the more varietie you shew the better shal you please.124

Debating Godly Music  79

Tomkins follows this advice in his display of an amorous humor that balances the earthly and the heavenly, the staid and the effeminate. His six-­part piece is truly full of diverse passions and airs marked by changing textures, unexpected modulations, and deft handling of the structure and meaning of the text. The learned, imitative opening suggests old-­fashioned sacred polyphony (ex. 2.2). The witty madrigalisms and clever treatment of such concepts as “above” (ex. 2.3) and “harmony” (ex. 2.4) demonstrate the sensory-­ intellectual subtlety expected of the madrigal. Here, “harmony” flows with consonant sweetness (ex. 2.4), “love” rises rapturously in parallel pairs (ex. 2.5a), and “lust” is surprisingly simple according to the rules of part writing (ex. 2.5b). No striking harmonies, metrical displacement, distant tonal regions, or “strange closes” illustrate the dreadful term. It is not adorned with florid melisma or other ornament. Each articulation of “lust” is a correctly prepared tonic, dominant, or subdominant chord, predictable musical commonplaces for the “natural” form of love. In fact, the core conflict between love and lust pivots, like the piece itself, on the tension between B-­flat and B-­natural. The former was considered in Renaissance music theory and especially madrigalian composition as the very epitome of sweetness, softness, lasciviousness, and effeminacy—the acoustic realm of Venereal power.125 In Tomkins’s piece, the erotically charged, soft (flat) B is associated with love and the realm of heavenly Venus, the hard (natural) one with lust. The final cadence, on the latter word, resolves the tension in favor of B-­natural for the “natural,” earthly form of love. The term is softened (effeminated?) by “love” when both sound briefly in juxtaposition, and it is “love” that sweetly supplies the missing third of the chord. Four measures from the end, the sole articulation of “love” against the strength of four voices singing “lust” is the soft, effeminate B-­flat as the highest-­sounding pitch: an acoustic metaphor for heavenly Venus briefly touching earthly desire. The musical contrary to divinely given love is thus the very opposite of madrigalian artifice. Tomkins’s conclusion is simple: the complexities of music are unjustly slandered when dismissed as an agent of mere lust; lust is harmonically basic and therefore unworthy of compositional artifice, and love rings with sonic sweetness as it flows like music between the realms of sensation and contemplation. Through the sense of hearing, Tomkins reminds his listeners of what philosopher and theologian Henry More (1614–1687) says in the aptly titled Cupids Conflict: “But senses objects soon do glut the soul, / Or rather weary with their emptiness.”126 Lust is empty, agrees the composer. Tomkins also translates his culture’s rhetorical and conceptual ideas of love and spiritual ascent into musical form at once audible to the ear and

80  Chapter two

From 'Musicke Devine' b

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b ú.

œ

-

icke

nú

∑

de

ú

de

∑

∑

-

bœ

vine,

-

œ

œ

ú

ú

sicke

de

nú w

de

#ú. w

-

œ

-

sicke

∑

vine,

Mu

ú

w

de

-

œ sicke

∑

de

ú

#ú de

-

-

nú.

-

∑

vine,

œ

nú

œ

de

sicke

ú

sicke

de

-

ú

-

w

ú w œ

vine,

-

ú

ú

de

œ

∑

∑

-

ú vine,

bú

vine,

-

∑ #ú. w

Mu

-

w

vine,

de

-

Mu

-

#ú -

sicke

∑

vine,

ú. w

œ

-

ú

de

de

∑

de

vine,

∑

-

œ

∑

w

-

vine,

œ

de

vine,

-

-

ú

ú.

(oh)

ú

-

∑

de

∑

∑

œ

nú

ú

ú.

ú

nú

-

ú

Mu

Mu

∑

vine,

vine,

w

de

w

∑

ú

ú

de

ú

vine,

-

de

œ

Ó

vine,

ú.

bœ

œ

∑

Thomas Tomkins

bú

∑

w

œ

vine,

vine,

-

w

∑

ú

-

de

sicke

de

w

Mu

-

nú

∑

∑

∑ ú

-

-

ú

-

∑

œ

sicke

∑

vine,

nú.

Mu

∑

Mu

-

nú.

∑

w

&b Vb

? C b

·.

C

&b

Vb C w

·.

ú.

Mu

∑

Vb C

[Altus]

b

∑

&b C

·.

∑

œ

sicke

vine,

Example 2.2 Thomas Tomkins, “Musicke Devine,” Songs of 3.4.5. and 6. Parts (1622), mm. 1–14.

comprehensible to the understanding. “I like that Love which by a soft ascension, does degree it selfe in the soule,” says Feltham of “enduring love” (italics in the original).127 Tomkins’s ultimate articulation of “love” works itself into the hearer’s soul in a similar manner, for each voice treats the word as a stepwise melismatic ascent after an initial half-­step drop. Even more striking is the

Debating Godly Music  81

From 'Musicke Devine' Thomas Tomkins

Cantus

&b C Œ

Sextus

&b C ú

œ

pro - ceed

Tenor

V b C œ.

de

œ

j œ ú

-vine,

Bassus

œ

ú

-vine

V b C ú.

ing

pro

&b C ú

Altus

-

Œ

- vine,

Quintus

j œ #œ

œ.

from

-

ceed

-

-vine

de - vine,

& b #œ œ

26

Œ

Œ

ú

pro

∑

Vb

ú Vb ?b Œ œ bove,

œ

-

nœ. œ J

from

Œ

Ó

Œ

Œ œ

Œ

-

ing

from

ú

from

ú

from

-

pro - ceed - ing

Ó

ú

from a - bove,

-

œ

œ.

pro - ceed

ú

œœ

bove,

œ

a

ú

from

∑

œ

Œ

-

ing

from

ú

pro

ú

bove,

-

œ J nœ

œ.

-

ú

œ

a - bove,

œ

ceed

-

œ

œ nœ J

ú

ing from

a - bove

from

œ a

-

bove,

a - bove from

∑

a

-

bove,

œ

œ œ œ œ œ

œ a

œ

-

ú

a - bove,

Œ

Ó

œ

from

a

-

œ Œ Ó Œ Œ Ó œ

bove, from a - bove,

ú

a

œ Œ Ó

nœ

œ ú

œ

a - bove,

œ

a - bove,

from a - bove,

Œ

œ

bove,

ing

pro -

Ó

-

a

-

Œ nœ

ú

œ

ing from

nœ

œ. œ #œ œ œ Œ J

ceed - ing from a

œ. œ #œ œ J

pro - ceed - ing

œ.

pro - ceed

Ó

j œ nœ

vine,

pro - ceed

œ . œj # œ œ

a - bove,

ceed

j œ nœ

-

œ.

bove,

ú

-

œ

ú

œ ∑

-

bove,

pro

w

de

ceed - ing from a

-

vine,

ú

&b Ó

a

Œ

Ó

j œ

œ.

Œ nœ

ú

w

vine,

from a - bove,

œ

ing from

-

ú

-

∑

j œ #œ

vine,

-

de

j & b nœ. œ #œ œ

ú

a - bove,

œ.

? b C œ œ #ú [d]e

œ

Œ Œ Ó œ

-

Œ Ó

Œ Ó

bove,

Example 2.3 Thomas Tomkins, “Musicke Devine,” Songs of 3.4.5. and 6. Parts (1622), mm. 22–30.

composer’s clear understanding of how to represent music’s ecstatic capacity. Edward Phillips’s English vernacular dictionary of 1656 defines ecstasy, which he elsewhere associates with rapture and “transportment,” as the rhetorical “figure wherein a syllable is made long contrary to its proper nature.”128 Butler suggests the same treatment for setting “a Hymn, Ant[h]em or other spiri-

82  Chapter two

From 'Musicke Devine' Cantus

œ &b C œœœœœœœ œœœœœœœ Har

Sextus

Quintus

Altus

-

-

-

œ œœœœ œ

mo

-

& b C œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. Har

&b C

-

-

∑

œ œ œ Vb C œ

Tenor

Vb C

Bassus

? C b

- ly

Har - mo - ny,

∑

Vb

Har

œ ú

∑

nœ

œ

ly

har

heaven - ly

∑

mo

-

∑

mo - ny,

œ.

-

Ó

œ

œ

her heaven

∑

Har

Ó

her Har

j œ ú

œ ú

Har

-

mo

Œ

her

Har

-

mo

œ œ

œ

œ

-

mo - ny,

∑

œ

Ó

? b œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ -

ú

mo

œ.

ny,

her

ú

heaven

-

Ó

Œ œ

j œ ú

ú

Ó

œ œ

œ.

ny,

œ ú

ly

her heaven

nœ

Ó

œ

j œ ú

Ó

œ œœœœœ œ bœ

Har - mo - ny,

ly

-

Har

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

ú

ú

ly

Har

œ bœ

ly.

-

mo

ly

ú

œœœ œ

ú

-

∑

œ

her heaven - ly,

her

bœ

her heaven -

-

heaven

-

œ œ

heaven - ly,

-

ú

her

∑

bú

œ

her

bœ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

-

mo - ny

-

-

w

mo

-

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ #œ œ

nœ

her

Har - mo - ny,

œ bú

-

her

ny,

her heaven

ny,

Vb

∑

-

∑

&b w

&b

-

œ.

-

j œ œ

œ œ œœœœ w

∑

50

&b

-

-

Thomas Tomkins

j œ ú

-

har

œ

∑

-

œ

heaven - ly,

ú

ny,

nú

ny,

ú

ú

œ.

j œ ú

ny,

œ

Ó

œ

Har - mo

mo

ny,

-

ú

ny,

Example 2.4 Thomas Tomkins, “Musicke Devine,” Songs of 3.4.5. and 6. Parts (1622), mm. 45–54.

tual song” to music. By this musical-­rhetorical process, he tells us, “the notes exceeding often the number of the syllables: which thorough his heavenly harmoni, ravisheth the minde with a kinde of ecstasy, lifting it up from the regarde of earthly t[h]ings, unto the desire of celestiall joyz.”129 Thus is Tomkins’s melismatically elongated “harmony,” which gently undulates downward over several repetitions in an extended sequence, an audible expression

Debating Godly Music  83

From 'Musicke Devine' Thomas Tomkins

Cantus

2 &b 2 ú

Sextus

& b 22

Quintus

2 &b 2

Œ œ œ œ œœœœ ú

Ó

just,

∑ Ó

Ó

#ú

To

∑ Œ

Altus

œ ú V b 22 Œ œ œ œ œ œ œ

Tenor

V b 22 ú

just,

To call that

Ó

love,

Ó

∑

&b &b Ó

#

To call that

To

ú

? Ó b

To

call that love,

∑

love,

∑

Œ œ

which is

Œ œ œ . œj ú

to

ú

Œ œ

in

-

-

call that love which

œ

deed but

which

but

∑

œ œ œ ∑

but

Ó

ú

Ó

#ú lust,

Œ

œ nœ #œ œ call that œ. J œ œ to

lust,

ú

œ

in - deed

œ

lust,

#œ

is

Ó

lust,

to call that

∑

Ó

Ó

œœ

Ó

to call

lust,

Œœ

œ œ œ.

j œ nœ. œ œ œ œ œ œ œ ú but lust, to call that love, j ∑ œ ú Ó

is in - deed

but

ú.

deed

œ œ œ œ œ

lust,

lust,

to

call that love,

which is

ú

ú.

to

call that

which

is

love,

ú.

œ œ

#œ ú

œ œ œ. œ J

Œ œ œ œ œœœ œ ú

∑

∑

ú

œ

in - deed but

which is

in

Ó

is

love,

Ó

but

œ œœœ œ œ

ú

Ó

œ œ œ œ which is

in - deed

œ

which

∑

call that love, love,

œ œ œœ œ œœ Ó love,

call that love,

Œ œ œ œ ú

œ œ ú

love,

Vb Ó

To

Œ œ œ œ œ œ

& b œ œ œœ ú Vb

ú œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ Ó

# ? 2 Œ œ œ #œ œ œ œ œ ú b 2 88

Œ ú

j œ ú

œ œ œ.

which is

∑

∑

just,

Bassus

call that love,

œ œ

Œ

in - deed but lust,

œ

but

œ œ . Jœ œ œ #œ œ#œ œ

to

ú

to

call that

Ó

love,

Ó

which

Œœ

to

Example 2.5a Thomas Tomkins, “Musicke Devine,” Songs of 3.4.5. and 6. Parts (1622), mm. 82–93.

of the passionate spiritual transport of heavenly love. The enraptured soul is not lost but gently guided. The mind is not estranged or stirred to earthly lust but simply moved toward higher things. “Now I in you without a body move, / Rising and falling with your wings,” exclaims poet George Herbert on the sweet, sacred transport of “Church-­Musick,” “But if I travel in your com-

84  Chapter two From 'Musicke Devine

2

&b œ œ ú

94

&b

ú

bœ œ œ œ that

which

love

&b Ó

œ œ ú œ ú

which

is

? b bœ œ œ œ œ œ ú

lust,

& b œ. &b

love

Vb

lust,

ú

lust,

ú

is

ú. ú

ú

ú.

in

ú which

œ

is

ú

is

ú

ú

-

Ó

to call that

Ó

lust,

-

œ

in

È

is

œ

œ

in

œ

in

-

love,

ú.

Œ œ

#ú

-

ú.

deed

ú. -

deed

ú

but

that

which

U

nw

is

but

in - deed

Œ

but

œ

which

œ

but

U

lust.

w

U

lust.

ú

but

œ. œ J

œ œ œ . œj ú

but

ú

œ

in - deed

which is

deed

deed

œ

œ œ œ œ bú Ó

but

œ . œj œ œ ú

œ

ú

is

Œ

œ

to call

ú.

ú ú

which

#œ ú

which

∑

but

deed

is

Ó

Œ œ œ nœ

w #ú

Œ œ

lust,

ú

love

Ó

deed

is

-

but

in

œ in

which

ú

lust,

∑

is

ú

œ

but

œ

which

ú

œ œ œ œ ú

ú

is

Ó

lust,

in - deed, in - deed but

which

lust, to call that

œ ú

œ bœ ú

œ J ú

which

ú

lust,

love

which

ú

Vb œ ?b

œ

but

nœ ú

bœ

∑

but lust,

call that

&b œ

100

in - deed

in - deed

which is

V b œ . œJ ú is

is

œ œ œ œ œ bœ œ œ œ œ œ

which is in - deed but

Œ œ ∑

Vb

œ œ œ œ

love

call that

j œ. œ ú.

w

œ

U

lust.

w

U

but

lust.

œ

lust.

but

lust.

w

U

w

Example 2.5b Thomas Tomkins, “Musicke Devine,” Songs of 3.4.5. and 6. Parts (1622), mm. 94–­end.

panie, / You know the way to Heavens door.”130 Portions of Tomkins’s piece do the same to the attentive listener, with the rise and fall of harmony leading back to higher realms. The most amorous genre has, in the manner of a spiritual song, become a vehicle for heavenly love. It reminds the auditor that divine music is as powerful as ecstatic prayer. Yet Tomkins’s song is no anthem or motet, no psalm, hymn, or portion of the liturgy. It is not a cry to the divine, nor is it intended for use in church or chapel. Here, love and the sacred origi-

Debating Godly Music  85

nate in a profane body of music and a secular text, the auditory equivalent of Platonic ascent through earthly beauty. In the end, the final cadence of this worldly composition settles on the disappointment of lust. “Music divine” and “heavenly harmony” are only lingering memories of greater auditory beauty. Through the jointure of music to text, the objects of sound and ear lead to judgment, wit, and understanding. Music becomes its own form of discourse that professes understanding of a cultural dialectic and of the medium often debated in words, especially in Christian context. Chapel musician Tomkins, of self-­professed serious humor, has used an ostensibly lighter form of his art to argue eloquently for the same kind of “exquisite” sacred musical practice as The Praise of Musicke and Butler’s Principles of Musik do with words. A clever composition renders slander of its art more thoroughly unjust than all the learned commonplaces most logically deployed and opponents dialectically diminished.

Codetta: The Prosecution Rests Tomkins’s part-­song also reminds us of the increasing distance between discursive significance and object signified, whether forms of harmony or ways of knowing music. By the end of the seventeenth century, conventional programs of musical education had changed. The formal praise and dispraise of music was no longer a marker of learned conversation, nor did musical erudition proceed from disputation. Music theory had shifted further toward praxis, and a new class of educated people and their intellectual pursuits had all but eradicated the dichotomy between liberal and mechanical knowledge. Scholars could no longer profess music in words alone, and musical enthusiasm, or real power over body or soul, retained currency only as a literary and dramatic conceit. Even the capacity of music to unsex a man or cause gender transition faded as ideas of more nuanced or permanently set maleness and femaleness gained greater traction.131 At the same time, appropriate use of music in English Christian worship or wholesome recreation was no longer debated as hotly or from so many perspectives. Practices and repertories from the Tudor dynasty had been passed on as traditions. Nonetheless, traces of what had been a long-­lived discursive practice remained well into the Restoration. An undated advertisement for lessons on the harpsichord and spinet by “Two Gentlewomen” at various London locations begins with the encomiastic formula of emphasizing the essence, significance, and effects of music for its target audience—those who will pay for “young Ladies, Gentlewomen, and others” to learn to play “the Ancient and Noble Art of

Figure 2.2 Advertisement for “young Ladies, Gentlewomen, and others” to learn “The Ancient and Noble Art of Musick.” © The British Library Board Harl. 5936[385].

Debating Godly Music  87

Musick” (fig. 2.2).132 Music is still praised primarily for its divine effects and through a familiar set of anecdotes. Readers are still reminded of its sacred origin and suitability for Christian use by its status as “the first Art after the Creation.” But St. Cecilia has joined, if not superseded, King David, and the goal is no longer further discourse or understanding proper use in church or private devotion. It is now “this opportunity [for the Female Sex] to learn at Musick School.” In his 1676 “remembrance of the best practical musick,” Thomas Mace methodically addresses imagined opponents of his enumeration of ancient powers and hidden similitudes of music. The greatest suggestion of controversy still surrounds discourse on “music divine.” In contrast to his intellectual forbears, however, Mace disparages those whose eloquence on the subject came from words. He reminds the reader (and his would-­be detractors) that, by his time, true authority on music came only from practical experience. With such a shift in meaning for those who “profess music,” disagreement about the art most likened to divinity would best come from within the community of hands-­on experts: But whereas I similize It [music] to Divinity, &c. I am not unsensible but too-­too many will Discent from me, in That Particular; concerning Which, I shall conclude my Preface with These following Rhimes, and only Thus much say. Where in This Book, in certain Places, I Do mention Musick, in its Mystery; And in Its Vast Profundity, do tell Such Stories, as perchance won’t Relish well In th’Ears of some; To whom I thus much say; Let Them go Practice well, to Sing and Play, And Study in the Art, as much as I: Then, may They Understand Its Mystery, As I have done.—’tis Foolishness in Men, To Contradict, they know not what; and when They’v done, Pretend Authority; because They’r some ways Learn’d: Therefore their Words are Laws They think; or else would have Them so; but I Do understand, that True Authority, Comes from True Knowledge, And Experience, In That Same Thing, of Which It gives its Sence, And by no other means.133

CHAPTER three

Harmony, Number, and Proportion

Toward the end of William Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, Lorenzo calls for music to welcome Portia and Nerissa home. After he cues the stage musicians through a command to Stephano to “bring [their] music forth into the air,” his words present a moonlit Italian night. In the imagined darkness, a gentle metaphor of sonic invasion invites the audience as well as his beloved Jessica to give themselves to the promised acoustic pleasure. But perhaps what they hear is no less illusory than the painted “heavens” with gilded stars that likely topped the original stage.1 As Lorenzo draws Jessica’s attention toward the eternal firmament beyond architectural embellishment and visible sky, he reminds her and the audience that the sweet strains they hear may also intimate a realm surpassing physical perception: [Lorenzo.] How sweet the moone-­light sleepes upon this banke, Heere will we sit and let the sounds of musicke Creepe in our eares[;] soft stillness and the night Become the tutches of sweet harmony. Sit Jessica, looke how the floore of heaven Is thicke inlayed with pattens of bright gold, There’s not the smallest orbe which thou beholdest But in his motion like an Angell sings, Still quiring to the young eyed Cherubins; Such harmonie is in immortall soules, But whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot heare it.2 89

90  Chapter three

Sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century England inherited from previous eras the notion that music was an invasive force with a privileged pathway to the heart and soul. It could move a listener to divine contemplation or dissolve the integrity of mind and body—sometimes both at once. Music, according to commonplace wisdom of the era, “Ravisheth the sences: revivieth the spirites: sharpeneth the witt: inflameth the heart: encourageth the valiant: terrifieth the dastard: relieveth the distraughted: expulseth Melancholike dumps: recreateth wearied minds: and stirreth up an aptnesse unto virtue and godlinesse.”3 Yet many debated whether music’s benefits outweighed its dangers. The most radical thinkers declared the art unsafe outside of strictly conscribed spiritual contexts. Even defenders of music who advocated the principles of liberal education, the restorative capacities of the art, and its use in Christian ritual sometimes echoed deeply rooted metaphors of sexual violence or somatic disruption to describe its deleterious effects. The same audible music that enhanced devotion or restored stasis could also emasculate. It could forcibly pull away the mind by entering the secret places of the body through the ear. Lorenzo’s next lines not only order the musicians to “wake Diana with a hymn”—command the very goddess of the moon—but deploy a common aural-­tactile image of how music overcame the body and free will: “With sweetest touches pierce your mistress’ ear / And draw her home with music.”4 However, Shakespeare also reminds us through Lorenzo’s speech that there was another kind of music that was perfect, eternal, and inaccessible through corporeal perception. It could not pierce the ear or draw the living body. It could not transnature men to women, dissolve them in tears, or snatch away their souls. To thinkers who superimposed classical and early Christian mistrust of human sensuality onto the ancient Western duality of mind and body, this transcendental music explained both the celestial perfection of the art and the shameful involuntary response to that pallid imitation produced by human agency. Metaphysical music also served an epistemological function as a means to explain the hidden depths of both the cosmos and the human mind. In the midst of his attack on the most compellingly sensual and dangerous of the arts, Gosson makes an impassioned exception for music that speaks directly to the intellect. After reminding readers that the great Pythagoras had found folly in sensory engagement with music and asking them in his name to shut their fiddles in their cases and “looke up to heaven,” Gosson reveals no less than Shakespeare the eternal perfections of extrasensory music. He locates these more broadly in

Harmony, Number, and Proportion  91

The order of the Spheares, the unfaillible motion of the Planets, the juste course of the yeere, and varietie of the seasons, the concorde of the Elementes and their qualyties, Fyre, Water, Ayre, Earth, Heate, Colde, Moysture and Droughte concurring togeather to the constitution and sustenance of every creature.5

Like Shakespeare’s Lorenzo, Gosson challenges us to rise above the flesh that traps our souls in the fleeting pleasure of the ear and acknowledge eternal concord in the unheard harmonies of heaven and earth. In so doing, he, too, recalls the Pythagorean cosmology that to many early modern thinkers still maintained order over chaos through the perfect precision of arithmetic number, geometric proportion, and everlasting harmony. The point of departure for Gosson’s verbalized summation of musical contemplation is, no less than Shakespeare’s poignant multimedia one, sensory engagement with eye and touch as well as ear. In both cases, the idea of “music that may not be heard” is rendered comprehensible through reference to that which could be.6 Like Shakespeare, Gosson’s older French contemporary Michel de Montaigne succinctly reminds readers that, on one hand, “Those Sects which combate mans science, do principally combate the same by the uncetainety and feeblenesse of our sences,” but that, on the other, “all knowledge is addressed unto us by the senses.”7 This reliance on the senses to provide concrete models for, or sometimes revelation of, hidden kinds of music figured prominently in many references to silent harmonies in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.

Art and Science Abstracted from Bodies Early modern music was an art and a science acquired through liberal or mechanical training. These emphasized different relationships between sensory and cerebral skills. Neither art nor science had yet acquired their modern meanings, making music a broader practice and a more widely encompassing categorical system than it has since become. Gosson equates mechanical praxis with what we consider a performing art and abstract intellectual engagement with something closer to philosophy or science. Case informs his esoteric Latin readership that music, which includes performance by voices or instruments as well as inaudible concent among natural elements, “est scientia, quia certum subjectum habet, nempe harmonium” (is a science, since it has a sure subject, namely harmony).8 Early English mass-­market dictionaries equate “artifice[r]” with “skill,” “craft,” or “handicraft.” They grant “sci-

92  Chapter three

ence” its cognate meaning from Latin “scientia” as “knowledge, skill, or learning,” or, as in an early Tudor translation directly from Latin, as “counnyng.”9 Both “art” and “science” therefore signified trained abilities, with “art” leaning connotatively toward physical labor and “science” toward mental acumen. These nuances reinforced an ancient educational system that distinguished the intellectually oriented studies of the lettered classes from manual training for the trades that provided goods or services to them.10 Some scholars, such as the early Tudor mathematician Robert Recorde (ca. 1512–1558), used the terms art and science interchangeably in the context of the seven liberal subjects that continued to distinguish the broadly learned individual from the one skilled in a practical craft.11 Until well into the seventeenth century, English intellectuals, like their Continental counterparts, placed music among the mathematical arts or sciences. With arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy, music helped constitute the ancient quadrivium of liberal learning that enhanced faculties of quantitative reasoning and served as precursors to theology. These four supplemented the trivium, the three subjects that, as Recorde puts it, “make men hable bothe to utter aptly theyr mynde, and also to persuade, as Grammar, Logike and Rhetorike.”12 The quadrivium were “sciences taught by demonstration,” signifying before the eighteenth century not practical explication of physical properties but proof by direct reasoning.13 Jacobean physician John Bullokar’s English Expositor, “teaching the interpretation of the hardest words used in our [English] language,” explains “mathematickes” more extensively as “a terme applyed to such arts, as treate onely of quantities imaginarily abstracted fro[m] bodies. The arts commonly so called, are Arithmeticke, Musicke, Geometry, Geography, Astronomie, Cosmography, and Astrology.”14 Trevelyon’s roughly contemporaneous pictorial personifications of “the seaven liberall sciences” reinforce the notions of reasoned argument and quantities abstracted from bodies by assigning each of the quadrivium the technologies by which practitioners gathered data and demonstrated conclusions (figs. 3.1, 3.2). The figure representing Musicke is given a chamber organ and viola da gamba, instruments associated with literate practice and practitioners. Trevelyon’s definition of music as the liberal science that “teacheth men to sing and to make a difference of tymes as wel by voice as instrument” serves as a reminder that it bridged corporeality and abstract reasoning more seamlessly than its sibling mathematics (fig. 3.2) What separates the true musician from the mere “crowder” (equivalent to “fiddler,” meaning a popular entertainer on any low-­status instrument who does not read from scores) is, according to Trevelyon, “art,” connoting thoughtful application of

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Figure 3.1 Grammatica, Dialectica, Rhetorica, and Arithmetica. Thomas Trevelyon, Pictorial Commonplace Book, fol. 158. Call # MS V.b.232. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

Figure 3.2 Musicke, Geometry, and Astronomia. Thomas Trevelyon, Pictorial Commonplace Book, fol. 158v. Call # MS V.b.232. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

learned principles.15 Yet both kinds of practitioner are figured as instrumentalists, showcasing technical and aesthetic commonality. Thoughtful consideration of abstraction in relation to perceptible qualities gave music a place in natural philosophy, occult doctrines including natural magic, the rising domains of experimental philosophy, and the Christian theology that governed all other fields. The generations after Bullokar and Trevelyon witnessed increasing emphasis on physical data and experimental methods in offshoots of the quadrivial disciplines, including acoustics.16 But the stage for the revelation of hidden properties had been set much earlier. Ways of knowing music, so beautifully juxtaposed in the implicit staging

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of Lorenzo’s speech and in Trevelyon’s distinction between the true artist and the crowder, often emphasized tension between end goals. In the revised preface to his arithmetic treatise, dedicated to the devout young King Edward VI, Recorde follows what later became a conventional approach to defending music by first emphasizing its ancient history as a “science” used in religious services and for moral edification.17 Over a half century later, Jacobean pastor Samuel Purchase (1577–1626), emphasizes the ironic disjunction between performers’ abstract quadrivial vocabulary and his era’s commonplace of music’s negative moral influence. “The Musician talks of Concord, Concent, and Harmonie, and is still in Discord with God and Goodnesse,” he concludes.18 Not every practitioner demonstrated interest in the secret aspects of music. Sometimes, as Recorde and Shakespeare, Gosson and Purchas, reveal in different ways, these served as calculated ciphers shared among cognoscenti. In the most famous early modern English definition of music, Thomas Morley explains that Musicke is either speculative or practicall. Speculative is that kinde of musicke which by Mathematicall helpes, seeketh out causes, properties, and natures of soundes by themselves, and compared with others, proceeding no further, but content with the onlie contemplation of that Art. Practical is that which teacheth al that may be knowne in songs, eyther for the understanding of other mens, or the making of ones owne.19

Composer, performer, publisher, and author of an eminently useful vernacular guide to the fundamentals of practical music, Morley ultimately had little to say about the speculative aspect of his art. Ravenscroft, as we saw in chapter 1, rendered it an esoteric Latin subject for an educated elite. Whythorne, on the other hand, explains for the mid-­Elizabethan era that next in status after church musicians, There be another sort of musicians that be named speculators. That is to say, they that do become musicians by study, without any practice thereof. There have been of such who have made songs and have pricked them out, and yet could not sing a part of them themselves.

He adds that the highest-­ranking practitioners, “the great gentlemen and the courtiers,” learned this skill as well as “to play and sound on musical instru-

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ments, or else sing prick song.”20 Speculation had been classified as the most refined musical skill over a thousand years earlier by Boethius. The speculator, says his foundational text, mastered music through reason, a capacity more honorable than “a skill which is practiced by the hand and the labor of an artisan.” For Boethius, “rational speculation” was not only a faculty of the intellect that enabled judgment. It extended to “knowledge of making music by weighing with the reason, not through the servitude of work.”21 This notion had been transmitted through the Middle Ages to the early modern era even as speculation shaded into wider fascination with symbols, coded secrets, and revelation of hidden qualities. In its sixteenth- and especially common seventeenth-­century sense as intellectual insight or reflection (from the Latin speculari, “to spy out, watch, examine, observe, etc.”), musical speculation belonged to a branch of quantitative investigation that has since died out. English music treatises after Morley and Ravenscroft emphasize rudiments of performable music that include aesthetic principles of construction and embodied artisanship.22 However, Roger Bray has determined that in early Tudor England, the highest academic degrees granted in music required submission of a carefully notated sacred composition impossible to perform as written. This was a uniquely English form of speculative music, abstracted from the body, content with contemplation, and “pricked out” unsingable. It served in the Doctor of Music degree as the reasoned demonstration required at the end of all fifteenth- and sixteenth-­century doctoral studies. Such pieces could only become performable—proceed further, as Morley would say—by subsequent transcription. The exercise was part of a subtle game between the most cerebral practitioners of the science of harmony who demonstrated their cunning through this silent unity of speculation and practice. Traces of such arcane techniques may have survived in some later Elizabethan music if not into the seventeenth century.23 Speculative music remained the province of other mathematicians who abstracted quantities from solid bodies for contemplation. A 1619 endowment to Oxford University, for example, stipulated that the newly created Professor of Geometry was to lecture on the divisions of the musical scale.24 The idea of speculation went beyond early modern conceptions of the mathematics. Music was connected through a web of analogous intellectual patterns to such diverse disciplines as poetry, rhetoric, theology, medicine, and natural history. In his polymathic Golden-­grove of 1600, writer William Vaughan (ca. 1575–1641) shows that this sort of percipient nexus arises from a common means of inquiry:

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The auncient Philosophers accounted three kinds of speculative or contemplative Sciences: to wit, naturall philosophy: the mathematics: and Divinity, which is the first and chiefest beginning of all things.25

Annibale Romei (active 16th century), whose manual of courtly conduct was translated into English a generation after Castiglione’s, presents a broader definition than Morley’s or Vaughan’s. He explains that speculation and practice are the main divisions of the human intellect: In this humane intellect, twoo most principall faculties are founde, the one of which is called by the Philosophers, understanding speculative, whose object is trueth, the other, practike understanding. . . . By meane of these two faculties, man acquireth two sorts of perfections: one of which is called Habite speculative, the other, Habite practike. Habite speculative is no other but a knowledge of all those things, that comprehende the universall frame, the which . . . are by their owne proper essence seperate from sensible matter, as is the omnipotent and most excellent God, the Intelligences assisting the Celestiall Spheares, and those which of the Metaphisics themselves, are called Transcendentes . . . the knowledge whereof, is deservedly called Wisedome: Some again by their essence, are wholly drowned in se[n]sible matter, and with motion conjoyned, and these bee the heavens, and bodies mixed: the knowledge of these things, is called natural Philosophy. There be yet some other, which in effect can never be seperate from sensible matter . . . and with the mind, they may be considered, or imagined: without consideration or imagination of matter, and this is mathematicall knowledge.26

These unambiguous connections between practice and morality and speculation and Truth are consistent with sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century English emphasis on the ethics of sounding music and with the parallel relegation of unheard harmony to doctrines of transcendence. The status of the mathematics as the speculative habit that bridged imagination and “sensible matter” helped enable connections and analogies between intellectual and bodily understanding. Case explains that music is a medium by which Man— freed and transformed, as it were, into mind alone—perpetually contemplates the First Mind and First Truth.27 The primary purpose of musical speculation was to explain the physical and metaphysical structure of the universe through aesthetic notions and concepts extracted from the other mathematics.28 Each of the quadrivial sciences and their derivatives went beyond the self-­contained abstractions and

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pragmatic applications of post-­Newtonian mathematics. Through the perfect order and proportion of arithmetic, geometry, astronomy, and music shimmered an image of the Prime Mover in all his brilliant glory.29 Like other esoteric doctrines of the early modern era, these mathematics were thus believed to offer the initiate a privileged insight into the secrets of the cosmos and the very mind of God. Case says that in the unity of all things with God, made possible by the numeric and harmonic proportion created between them, one might understand the admirable symphony of all things. Recorde explains that, of the quadrivium, astronomy and music most enable insight into the works of God and delight in his worship.30 The Tudor and early Jacobean mathematician, astrologer, magician, and antiquarian John Dee (1527–1609) exclaims in his introduction to the first English-­language edition of Euclid’s Elements of Geometry that All thinges (which from the very first originall being of thinges, have bene framed and made) do appeare to be Formed by the reason of Numbers. For this was the principall example or patterne in the minde of the Creator. O comfortable allurement, O ravishing perswasion, to deale with a Science, whose Subject, is so Auncient, so pure, so excellent, so surmounting all creatures, so used of the Almighty and incomprehensible wisdome of the Creator, in the distinct creation of all creatures . . . by order, and most absolute number, brought, from Nothing, to the Formalitie of their being and state.31

Dee borrows directly from Platonic, Pythagorean, and early Christian number mysticism, and he had clearly studied Proclus’s fifth century Neoplatonic commentary on Euclid.32 Perhaps more tellingly, his ecstatic language recalls similar invocations of sounding music as the pathway from flesh to pure spirit. For Dee, the mathematical sciences are not simply abstract imitations of universal reality but the key to all creation, capable of ravishing and alluring the intellect the same way others claim audible music inveigles the senses. As a preamble to the wonders of each mathematical science, Dee explains that the mathematics’ collective efficacy results from their position “betwene thinges supernaturall [i.e., metaphysical] and naturall.” In this ambiguous third realm they mediate between the “immaterial, simple, indivisible, and incorruptible” reality of metaphysics and the “basse and grosse” world of nature.33 Other thinkers from the generations before and after Dee more closely follow the Aristotelian idea that only arithmetic and geometry belong entirely to the contemplative faculties. The rest of the mathematics, including music, necessitate sensory involvement. Romei, for example, considers astrology, per-

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spective, stereometry, and music to be “half-­sciences,” fundamentally speculative habits with physical application: Mathematicall knowledge [is] divided into Geometrie, which handleth continuall quantitie, that is, line, superficies, and body: and arithmetike, beeing conversant about discreet quantitie, which is number: there bee further some speculative habites comprehended under these three heades, by the Logitians termed, sciences subalternall, or halfe sciences: for . . . they participate of naturall knowledge, but considering the manner, by which they prove their conculsions, they are mathematicall. . . . Amongst these, is Astrologie, considering bodies, and motions celestial . . . then prospective, which intreateth the visible line, Steremetrie, being employed touching solide bodies; & musicke, respecting number harmonicall.34

Francis Bacon takes these ideas one step further. Expanding on Aristotelian principles, he divides the mathematics into what we would consider pure and applied fields on the basis of whether quantitative reasoning serves a purely intellectual end or enhances human use of natural (physical) qualities.35 Like Bullokar and Romei for their contrasting readerships, Bacon expands the four liberal mathematics into a wider range of disciplines, including architecture, perspective, and engineering: The MATHEMATICKS are either PURE, or MIXT: To the PURE MATHEMATICKS are those Sciences belonging, which handle Quantitie determinate meerely severed from any Axiomes of NATURALL PHILOSOPHY: and these are two, GEOMETRY and ARITHMETICKE . . . MIXT hath for subject some Axiomes or parts of Naturall Philosophie. . . . For many parts of Nature can neither be invented with sufficient subtiltie, nor demonstrated with sufficient perspicuitie, nor accomodated unto use with sufficient dexteritie, without the aide and interveyning of the Mathematicks: of which sorte are Perspective, Musicke, Astronomie, Cosmographie, Architecture, Inginarie [engineering], and divers others.36

Between Sense and Intellect: Music as Conceptual Tool The position of the “half-­sciences” or “mixed” mathematics between tangible and intangible phenomena gave them special status among quantities

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abstracted from bodies. These disciplines featured objects from the sensible world but could not be mastered without specific theoretical apparatuses. Even the eminently practical Morley insists, building on Boethius and Franchinus Gaffurius, that knowledge of music required both sense and intellect.37 This combination made music especially effective for generating metaphors, defined by Peacham as translation “from the senses of the body, to the thinges in the mind.” He adds that this trope occurs more broadly “when a word is translated from the proper & natural signification, to another not proper, but yet nie and likely.”38 Cognitive linguist Zoltán Kövecses confirms that metaphor formation involves not only the body but also discourses by which people communicate and interact plus the conceptual knowledge accumulated by any given culture.39 Western discourses about music conventionally rely on metaphor because they describe musical motions, effects, and structures in terms originally borrowed from other domains.40 For the early modern era, the sensory immediacy of music, in conjunction with its long-­ standing association with abstract perfection, further enabled it to provide metaphors for the relationship between disparate elements. Instruments that needed frequent tuning and musical practices other than solo monophony became key signifiers in this transference. During the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, human intellectual faculties came to be deemed more powerful, complex, and expansive than the physical world. Through the mind, the wise could improve on nature, contemplate divinity, or unlock cosmic secrets. Among the principle means of facilitating these processes stood language. Through it, the universe was configured as a series of interlocking metaphors that enabled reassignment of constructs from one aspect to another until all were connected by semantic and conceptual webs. This reflexivity between superficially unrelated ideas and entities eroded the distinction between mental recreation and earnest conceptual modeling.41 Through such cogitative processes, distance between concrete reality and its projected image, or between original sense and intellectual translation, shrank.42 Poet, preacher, and master of metaphor John Donne reminds us in one of his meditations that even the Lord of All, creator of both mind and matter, was to be received at once literally and metaphorically: My God, my God, thou art a direct God, may I not say, a literall god, a God that wouldest bee understood Literally, and according to the plaine sense of all that thou saiest? But thou art also . . . a figurative, a metaphoricall God, too: a God in whose words there is such a height of figures, such voyages, such

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peregrinations to fetch remote and precious metaphors, such spreadings, such Curtains of Allegories, such third heavens of Hyperboles, so harmonious eloquutions, so retyred & so reserved expressions, so comma[n]ding perswasions, so perswading commandements, such sinewes even in thy milk, and such things in thy wordes, as all prophane Authors, seem of the seed of the Serpent, that creeps, thou art the dove, that flies.43

The early modern cognitive-­linguistic translation between body and mind, and from one sense receptor to another, permitted further fragmentation of musical concepts into more and more diverse analogues that could be brought to bear on each other. The fundamental numeric commonality between all of the quadrivial sciences and their offshoots encouraged such movement between sources and targets.44 Sometimes the original musical referent was acknowledged in the transfer, especially from one sensory domain to another, or from quadrivial- to craft-­based mathematics. François DuJon (Franciscus Junius, 1545–1602) remarks in his study of the Painting of the Ancients that visual art from Pliny’s time onward had simply reappropriated terminology from arithmetic and music to build its own technical language: Truely it is likely that Artificers have borrowed the words Analogie and Harmonie from that Proportion which is found in Aritmeticall numbers or in Musicall concords: for Proportion is nothing else but a certain law or rule of numbers which Artificers follow. . . . It appeareth lastly out of Pliny, that Painters have taken from Musicians the words tonus and harmoge, and have transferred them into their owne Art.45

More frequently, however, the relevant term either continued to indicate its sensory original or was fully “translated” to its new intellectual context. Bullokar’s dictionary tells us, for instance, that harmony is “delightful musicke of many notes.”46 But Thomas Blundeville’s astronomical treatise of 1602 applies the same term only to the relative motion of celestial bodies.47 The Pathway to Musicke points out that concord is literally “unlike voyces within themselves, tackt together, sweetly sounding unto the eare.”48 However, in his sermon describing the perfect “Preparative to Marriage,” Elizabethan preacher Henry Smith (ca. 1560–1591) refers to holy matrimony, a different tacking together of unlike quantities in sweetness, as a concord.49 In short, the literal and metaphorical, or what Peacham called things of sense and things of mind, were by no means polar opposites, especially when both shared the same name.50 “Harmony” and “concord” loaned themselves from music not only to astro-

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nomical modeling and Christian sacrament but, in more extended metaphors, to cosmology, divinity, poetics, didactic storytelling, and the entire realm of what Bacon considers natural philosophy. This included its “mixed” and experimental branches.51 In his encyclopedic study of pagan deities, Batman uses music as a conceptual tool and epistemological model to illustrate concord, personified as the goddess Concordia. He regards this figure as a timeless meme as much as an inappropriate object of worship from the days before the Gospel.52 Batman relies on the cognitive ability of his reader to translate (memory of ) audible polyphonic instrumental music into abstract agreement between discrete entities and to move from word to mental image to imagined sound to pure concept: CONCORDIA was figured lyke a comlye Matrone holdynge a Chayne, to the whyche were fastened all kynd of Beastes by couples in their kynde sittinge on [musical] Instrumentes. . . . Signification. Concorde signifieth all coequalities, aswell of agreeinges in Beastes, Birdes, Serpentes, Wormes, Fishes, Fowles, as Man and Woman, kingdomes and Nacions: Being portraicted lyke a comlye Matrone, showeth therby the modestye aswell of the Mynde, as Apparel, to bee advised in al thyngs, her Chayne also signifieth the force of a Stable Mynde, in fast lyncked experience: By the Beastes cowpling together, the accord that Nature yeldeth to her owne kynde. By sitting on divers Instrumentes, the suppressing of vayne phantasie, not over much delighting in naked comfort: for as every Instrume[n]t (how brave soever they be in show) being fou[n]d discorda[n]t in Note, from the true concord in Musicke, is nothinge worth, so Amities, Friendshippes, and Cordiall dealings between man and man, being but to utter show, & not from a faythfull harte, is then called Hypocrisie, and breedeth dissention.53

The fact that these instruments are not only depicted as silent but unplayable further helps readers internalize the tensions Batman mentions between cooperation and dissention among people. Henry Peacham the Younger (1578–1644 or later), son of the minister of the same name, later takes the opposite approach to depicting concord and amity across media (fig. 3.3) His metaphor requires music that is potentially audible—but only to those trained to interpret the sonic signifiers coded into

Figure 3.3 Emblem “Tantó dulcius” (More Sweet). Henry Peacham, Minerva Britanna, fol. 204. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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a visual medium. His Jacobean emblem “Tantó dulcius” (More Sweet) offers notated music to the eye from which it can be translated into prescribed sound in mind or rendered audible by two singers with different vocal ranges.54 He further emphasizes transfer from the sense of taste to hearing and the concept of social agreement. For Peacham, disagreement that ends in concord is signified by a cadential suspension and its resolution from dominant to tonic in G minor and by voices that begin at different times but end together, all on the word “dolcimente” (sweetly). The first stanza of the accompanying epigram likens social falling out and subsequent reconciliation to the given phrase of music, which requires no less decoding than do the Latin motto and Italian song text for a native English speaker. The frontispiece of Thomas Salmon’s Restoration Essay To the Advancement of Musick brings together devices used earlier by Batman and by Peacham the Younger to illustrate sensory and conceptual concord (fig. 3.4) Like Batman’s Concordia, the image features personification and the metonymy of musical instruments to stand for music. Like Peacham’s “Tantó dulcius,” it presents notated codes for precise musical sound. In this case, the instruments are in playable order and position, one is being played, and the picture uses the familiar topos whereby tunable stringed instruments stand for the act of making order from chaos.55 The engraving shows a well-­dressed young woman, hair neatly bound back and face framed by fashionable Restoration side curls, playing a theorbo beneath a verdant tree.56 A bass viol, treble lute, and tenor lute rest near her in positions from which they could easily be exchanged for the theorbo. Opposite the flourishing tree stands a row of smaller, carefully pruned ones. These are spaced at regular intervals around the perimeter of an ordered, walled garden behind a stately manor home. In the upper left corner, balancing the performer, the conventional signifier of the hand of God holds a music book open to two successive pages in contrasting forms of notation. Across the bottom of the facing pages is a Latin sentence meaning “With concord, small things thrive; with discord, greatest things decay.” On the page describing Concord is an octave scale from bottom to top of the staff, the new gamut in the simplified notational system Salmon proposes in his treatise. On the page representing Discord, in the conventional notational system Salmon finds needlessly complex, is a cacophonous mix of chromatic (mostly flat) notes. Abstract Concord has indeed made thrive the earthly things in the image: the natural woodland tree and its fellows that make up a park around the estate, the well-­proportioned and carefully tended house and garden, and the theorbo player flourishing in the prime of life. There is no room in this world for discord in music, nature,

Figure 3.4 Thomas Salmon, An Essay to the Advancement of Musick, frontispiece. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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the built and tended human environment, or the use of a system of musical notation that, according to Salmon’s controversial book, encourages it in performance.57 Each of these images, one in words and the others in a combination of word, note, and picture, make use of polyvalent metaphors. Peacham the Elder reminds us that metaphor includes not only the translation between mind and body or any of the five senses but also between living and nonliving and rational and irrational things.58 Furthermore, the complexities of all three make up what Peacham the Elder considers allegory, “none other thing, then a contynued Metaphor . . . when many translations doe abound together.”59 Batman’s Concordia also fits the early modern definition of myth, which was not limited to the “putative & imagined Gods of the Gentiles.”60 “Mythologie (mythologia),” says lexicographer Thomas Blount (1618–1679), is “a declaration of fables, an expounding or moralizing upon a tale.”61 The seminal twentieth-­century anthropologist Claude Levi-­Strauss defines myth in terms that reflect what Peacham the Elder says of metaphor. Levi-­Strauss, too, emphasizes the sensory origin of such metalinguistic explanatory systems. “Myth,” says he, consists in logical relations . . . whose invariant properties exhaust their operative value, since comparable relations can be established among the elements of a large number of different contents. . . . These differences can be reduced to a variety of codes, evolved on the basis of different sense categories—taste, hearing, smell, feel, and sight.62

The most widespread early modern transferal of music between sense and intellect, or especially between “proper & natural” and likely significations, is the tripartite division of music founded on Pythagoreanism and articulated most enduringly by Boethius into its parallel dimensions. What began as earnest conceptual modeling of the universe ultimately enabled metaphor formation that blossomed into allegory. This, in turn, sometimes led to extended mythologizing through reuse and reappropriation. All three divisions of music—belonging respectively to the celestial spheres and order of the world, the soul and body of the human being, and acoustic performance— reflected each other. All could be apprehended by immortal souls and perhaps other bodiless intelligences. Only the third and lowest could be heard by those enclosed in the “vesture of decay” so poignantly evoked by Shakespeare. The highest cosmic music also held together the four ancient elements and just course of the year to which Gosson refers.63 Any of these three forms of

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music could stand for any other(s). As Shakespeare and Gosson demonstrate in opposite ways, the audible sort enabled conception of the other two. Case asks readers to imagine Boethius’s mental process and the true harmonies to which his work refers. In so doing, Case adds metaphor to metaphor and invokes the faculty of imagination that assisted abstraction from bodies and redirection of ideas: For just as a chorus, as of many concordant voices, was sitting in Boëtius’ secret mind as he was writing De Musica, and as images strike the mind when the eyes and other outward senses are closed, so, although the sound of bodies endlessly turned by the hand of God may not be impressed on the ear, there is in the mind nonetheless the truest modulation and harmony of their bodies thus moved, and of moving spirits.64

In this brief passage, Case analogizes individual and collective mental processing in terms of harmonious vocal music. He leads readers to human cogitation and divine action by directing them inward and outward from multisensory experience. That “vesture of decay” does not matter, because God permanently impressed in the mind what the body cannot apprehend. From the Elizabethans Batman and Case through the Restoration Salmon, things of sense and mind merge seamlessly, infinitely mirroring a series of otherwise noncontiguous thoughts and constructs. These return again and again to (memory of ) auditory congruence. This unending kaleidoscope of harmonic discourse, which reaches from the farthest spheres of heaven to the marriage bed, is united by transcendence of the mortal world of sense and the consequent transformation of chaos into order.

“ The Worlds Musicke ” Of the conceptual realms of music elucidated by Boethius, musica mundana, or music of the spheres, has been the most influential and longest lived. No musical idea has informed a wider range of discourses over a longer period. Rudimentary forms date from pre-­Socratic Greece, and the construct lingers into the twenty-­first century. With only slight modifications, musica mundana transferred across rival metaphysical systems and from religion to religion. It moved between arts and sciences and speculation and practice. The music of the spheres enabled earnest theoretical modeling, multidirectional metaphor formation, and experimental investigation into natural phenomena. It inspired extraordinary works of music, literature, and drama, including

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Lorenzo’s poignant speech above. Its heyday was between the seventh and seventeenth centuries CE; during the latter, it morphed into (musico-­)poetic conceit, and inspiration for explorations in natural and experimental philosophy.65 To auditorily oriented premodern thinkers, celestial harmony was not merely a pure and absolute abstraction that had existed in the mind of God before all matter. The physical nature of musical concord—a pleasing union of diverse notes—was a practical, perceptible metaphor for the paradoxical unity and infinitude of both Creator and created universe.66 In the beginning, when all was a formless void awaiting shape and dynamic from the Prime Mover, nothing had direction or coherence. Andreas Ornithoparchus emphasizes the use of musical sound in the act of creation by which God set the world into harmonious motion beginning with the heavens. Through John Dowland’s Jacobean translation of his practical treatise Micrologus, he explains to English readers that When God (whom Plutarch prooves to have made all things to a certaine harmonie) had devised to make this world moveable, it was necessary, that he should governe it by some active and mooving power. . . . Now that motion . . . is not without sound: for it must needs be that a sound be made by the very wheeling of the Orbes, as Macrobius in [Super] Somnium Scip[ionis]. lib. 2 writeth. The like sayd Boetius, how can this quick-­moving frame of the world whirle about with a dumbe and silent motion? From this turning of the heaven, there cannot be removed a certaine order of Harmonie. And nature will (saith that prince of Romane eloquence Cicero, in his sixt booke de Repub[lica]) that extremities must needs sound deepe on the one side, & sharp on the other. So then, the worlds Musicke is an Harmonie, caused by the motion of the starres, and violence of the Spheares. Lodovicus Coelius Rodiginus . . . writeth, that this Harmony hath been observed out of the consent of the heavens, the knitting together of the elements, and the varietie of times. Wherefore well sayd Dorilaus the Philosopher, That the World is Gods Organe. Now the cause wee cannot heare this sound according to Pliny is, because the greatnesse of the sound doth exceede the sense of our eares. But whether wee admit this Harmonicall sound of the Heavens, or not . . . certaine it is, that the grand Work-­maister of this Mundane Fabricke, made all things in number, weight, and measure, where in principally, Mundane Musicke doth consist.67

Although he recognizes that some may be skeptical about this intangible force, Ornithoparcus’s citation of such a wide range of authorities before his

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main point, plus repeated reference to the divine origin of Mundane Music, dare the reader to disagree with his argument. Others unhesitantly accepted the concept because of its great antiquity and frequent mention by past experts. Even those who had turned their eyes toward heaven in ancient ignorance of Scripture were said to have acknowledged harmony as a precondition of universal order. The Praise of Musicke allows the pagan voice of Nature to explain that she, too, had created everything from pure musical concord in the Saturnine days before the reign of Olympian Jove: When I made the firmament I established it by concent. When I made the elementes I qualified them with proportions. When I made man I gave him a soule either harmony it selfe, or at least harmonicall. Nay besides this, Non est harmonice compositus qui musica non delectatur [he is not harmonically put together whom music does not delight]. If I made any one which cannot brook or fancy Musicke, surely I er[r]ed and made a monster.68

The name most associated with this idea that the universe is founded on musical-­mathematical concent was, and remains, Pythagoras. This charismatic, semimythical sixth-­century BCE Greek philosopher and religious teacher recognized the mathematical character of musical concord, which he applied to the proportionality of the cosmos. None of his work survives. His ideas, as codified by his followers and their immediate successors, were passed on to Plato, Aristotle, Boethius, and subsequent thinkers. In simplest form, the Pythagorean principle of universal harmony held that the essence of all visible and invisible entities was reducible to numerical proportions; when sounded together, these yielded pleasing musical consonance. The basis of these sonorous ratios lay in arithmetic, astronomy, and geometry as well as music. Through these proportions, the entire cosmos and all forms of intellectual abstraction became related as an infinite series of reflections, reverberations, and constructed chords from the most basic elements of nature through the human soul to the most distant sphere of heaven. An echo of eternal truth therefore resided in musical consonance.69 Pythagorean doctrine was originally a teleological system concerned with the relative motion and placement of celestial objects. It permitted purification of the mind through successive stages of contemplation until, cleansed of all corporeal distraction, an individual could reunite with the perfect mind that had set the whole in order.70 At the fundamental human level, it was through the metaphysical music of rationality and intellectual self-­discipline

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that the mind could prepare for its ascent toward divinity. Jesuit author Henry Hawkins (1577–1649) reminds us of this in his exquisite Marian devotional book Parthenia Sacra, in which he merges the idea with the common metaphor of the human being as musical instrument with tunable strings: Musick is no more then a harmonie and sweet accord of divers tones unto one melodie, without any jarre or discord between them. And Man is a Harp; the Powers and Faculties of the Soule, the strings; and Reason, the Harper. If Reason then playes well his part, which makes the honest man, Oh what a harmonie there is in al, & especially where the tongue and hart agree togeather?71

Poet Francis Quarles (1592–1644) approaches the same ascent with contrasting use of musical signifiers in the two-­part frontispiece to his immensely popular book of emblems (fig. 3.5). Instead of being figured as harp strings to be played by Reason, Quarles’s soul retains human form. It is embodied as a woman, presumably in keeping with its Latin-­language gender. This soul must set aside earthly distractions, including music that can be heard, and tighten pegs of the sublime theorbo until the seraphic choir may join the consort (punning on soul/spouse and musical ensemble) that is “more than halfe divine.” Only then can the “ravisht brain” of the narrator (or reader) rise to sing in eternal realms above the body and “dungeon earth.” The pictorial image that accompanies the poetic “Invocation” places a lute by the left hand of the Soul. She has cast aside the instrument along with other worldly pleasures. Rising from her mouth in a beam of light emanating from the celestial sphere at the top of the image is the ecstatic invitation from Virgil’s messianic fourth eclogue to sing of higher things. At the bottom of the image, below the mundane sphere on which the soul reclines, is the Latin motto meaning “to Heaven I aspire, the Ground I despise.”72 The Heaven to which she aspires, in which the reader-­viewer is called to imagine the eternal choir and metaphysical theorbo, is presented as an orb that brings together sun, stars, and, rising out of the picture frame into pure abstraction, an equilateral triangle presumably representing the Trinitarian Godhead. Such works as Ornithoparcus’s Micrologus, The Praise of Musicke, Hawkins’s Parthenia Sacra, and Quarles’s Emblemes demonstrate collectively that what was especially attractive to the early modern era about Pythagoreanism was its applicability to temporal and eternal phenomena, its polyvalent blend of natural philosophy and ethics, its quantitative balance to aca-

Figure 3.5  Francis Quarles, Emblemes, frontis‑ piece (sig. A4v) and p. 1. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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demic Aristotelianism, and its practical complement to Platonism.73 Aside from having been the first named thinker who sought to include in a single system the various bodies visible in the heavens, Pythagoras (or his early followers) had postulated a planetary system governed by universal harmony based on mathematical-­musical ratios. Pythagorean cosmology was founded on the idea that if a single string (monochord) is divided into two equal parts, each will sound the octave of the tone produced by the whole; and that the scale, including its overtone series, arises from further divisions. In conjunction with early astronomical observations and Greek theories of auditory cognition, early Pythagoreans thus perceived the observable world as a harmonious arrangement based on the numerical proportions of 2:1 (the diapason or octave), 3:2 (the diapente or fifth), and 4:3 (the diatesseron or fourth).74 Philemon Holland’s late Elizabethan translation of Pliny’s Natural History explains the application of these ideas to the spheres of heaven: But Pythagoras otherwhiles using the tearmes of musicke, calleth the space betweene the earth and the Moone a tonus, saying, that from her to Mercurie is halfe a tone: and from him to Venus in manner the same space. But from her to the Sunne as much and halfe againe: but from the Sunne to Mars a Tonus, that is to say, as much as from the earth to the Moone. From him to Jupiter halfe a Tonus: likewise from him to Saturne halfe a Tonus: and so from thence to the Signifier Sphaere or Zodiake so much, and halfe again. Thus are composed seven tunes, which harmony they call Diapason, that is to say, the Generalitie or whole state of concent and accord, which is perfect musicke. In which, Saturne moveth by the Dorick tune: Mercurie by Phthongus, Jupiter by the Phrygian, and the rest likewise: a subtiltie more pleasant ywis than needfull.75

Holland’s similar translation of Plutarch’s Morals not only reinforces this idea. It demonstrates its wide-­reaching applications to mathematics, all branches of philosophy, and theology even while showing its extreme antiquity and synthesis of many intellectual traditions.76 As late as the 1660s, Christopher Simpson’s practical treatise for improvisation on the division viol offers “Reflections Upon the Concords of Musick” on the same conjunction between the seven moving spheres of heaven, degrees of the scale, and echoes of Creation. In this way, the performer of the seven-­fretted instrument “of something a lesser size than a Consort Bass” could participate in an echo of eternity.77 Pythagoreanism believed this harmony of infinite worlds inaccessible to

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mortal ears. In Pliny’s terms, “to us within, it seemeth to pass in silence.”78 However, when transformed into the incorruptible purity of number, such silent music could be understood by human reason or received into the divinely made soul as harmonious proportion. Reality was thus dichotomized into contrasting realms of abstraction and physicality of which the latter was traditionally considered deceptive and inferior.79 Only the sublime purity of mathematical contemplation could elevate consciousness beyond the sensible world and its base animal desires. Caroline poet Henry Reynolds (fl. 1628–1632) explains in his Neoplatonic Mythomystes that, for if God . . . did nothing by chance, but through his wisdome disposed all things as in weight and measure, so likewise in number; (and which taught the ingenious Sal[l]uste to say, that ———————Sacred harmony And law of Number did accompany Th’allmighty most, when first his ordina[n]ce Appointed earth to rest, and Heaven to daunce) Well might Plato consequently affirme that among all liberall Arts, and contemplative Sciences, the chiefest and most divine was the Scientia numerandi.80

Here we see a lack of distinction between each corner of the quadrivium, a metaphor so sweeping that sense and intellect, original and translation, and even symbolic identity have merged to gain sublimation in a single doctrine of numerical perfection. It was even believed by some that the power of the divine Orpheus over darkness and death had come about through his knowledge of a vanished art of number sounding through his voice and lyre.81 There was a continuous flow of metaphors from the mind of the Creator through the concentrically reflected realms of planetary and human bodies until the entire cosmos became a harmonious totality of movements and forms.82 “Looke upon the frame, & workmanship of the whole worlde,” commands The Praise of Musicke, whether there be not above, an harmony between the spheares, beneath a simbolisme between the elements. Look upon a man, who[m] the Philosophers termed a litle world, whether the parts accord not one to the other by consent and unity.83

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“Everything that exists in the world of the elements, no matter how paltry,” concurs Dee, “is an effect of the total celestial harmony or a particular example and reproduction of it.”84 Through the merger of analogous things across the visible and invisible universe, this musical metaphor could be pursued through the celestial spheres, the physical world, and the miniature cosmos that was a human being.85 Seventeenth-­century English numerologist William Ingpen (fl. 1624) reminds us in words that pay homage to the Neoplatonic magic of Agrippa and Ficino that music guides the stars and the human soul and body, provoking each to her will. “Musicall harmony bringeth not a little faculty of discoursing,” he says, seeng her power and vertues are so great, that shee is called The Imitatrix of the starres, of the soule and body of man. And when she followeth celestiall bodies so exquisitely, it is incredible to think, how she provoketh those heavenly influxes, how she tempereth the affections of her hearers, their intentiuons, gestures, motions; changeth their actions and manners, allureth them to her properties.86

By the seventeenth century, when Robert Fludd, Johannes Kepler, Athanasius Kircher, and Isaac Newton provided some of the last original insights into celestial harmonies, classical Pythagoreanism had undergone numerous metamorphoses. It had fused several originally distinct doctrines, responded to Aristotelian skepticism, and incorporated centuries’ worth of cosmological and astronomical discourse.87 From the world-­soul of Plato’s Timaeus through the distinctive ideas of such thinkers as Iamblichus, Aristoxenus, Plotinus, Ptolemy, Plutarch, Boethius, Augustine, Aquinas, Ficino, and Agrippa, many, sometimes conflicting, variants of the ancient doctrine that had posited the unity of everything through harmony filtered into the received wisdom of early modern England.88 Church of England clergyman George Hakewill (1578–1649) simplifies the long history of the concept from the increasingly skeptical perspective of his nation’s seventeenth-­century intellectual mainstream: There were among the Ancients not a few, nor they unlearned, who by a strong fancie conceived in themselves an excellent melody made up by the motion of the Celestiall Spheares. It was broached by Pithagoras, entertained by Plato, stiffely maintained by Macrobius and some Christians, as Beda, Boetius, and Anselmus Archbishop of Canterbury: but Aristotle puts it off with a jest, as being . . . a pleasant and musical conceit, but in effect impossible. . . .

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Howsoever it may well bee that this conceit of theirs was grounded upon a certain truth, which is the Harmonicall and proportionable motion of those Bodies in their just order, and set courses, as if they were ever dauncing the rounds or measures.89

Hakewill’s defense of a “certain truth” obscured by fancy and conceit suggests recognition of the divergence of an intellectual heritage useful for metaphysics and poetics from the natural and experimental philosophies that had begun to reveal grave flaws in what had long been considered physical fact. But the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries valued intellectual tradition as well as innovation. The inherited bonds between music and the other parts of the quadrivium continued to serve as powerful, recognizable emblems of order, ancient wisdom, and the desire to concretize the intellectual. The harmony of the spheres remained viable as metaphor within philosophical, literary, and theological discourse even when its literal meaning became irrelevant or it had been adapted to modeling other, sometimes newer, physical systems.90

“ A Simbolisme between the Elements ” : (Re)appropriation across Domains Music overlapped with other mathematics, particularly the two with which Trevelyon pictures it most closely (fig. 3.2). This helped connect sensory and conceptual domains from neoclassical cosmologies through Restoration mechanical modeling by means of audiovisual analogues. Geometry, with its sublime basis in abstraction and extension into dimensional figures and spatial relations, especially united otherwise incongruous forms of harmony and proportion. Ingpen conventionally locates this intersection in divine creation beyond human hearing, reminding readers “that God, by making so many contrary elements agree together, by adding so many tones and sones [sounds] to those visible and invisible heavens, hath plaid the part of a Notable Musician, as well as a Geometrician.”91 More often, geometry, sometimes with astronomy or arithmetic, made musical practices immediately accessible through concrete representation of audible structures and proportional relations. Under “annotations necessary for the understanding” of his Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke, Morley emphasizes that the concept of proportion shared by arithmetic, music, and geometry origi-

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nates in the latter. The previous year, William Barley’s mass-­market Pathway to Musicke had followed its requisite definition of “What is Musicke” with a series of graphs delineating scales, keys, and clefs as relative spatial relations.92 The “exquisite” dancing of “the moste high, puissant, noble, virtuous, and right Christian Princesse Elizabeth . . . Quene of Englande, Fraunce, and Ireland” was, according to Netherlandish visitor Jan van der Noot, facilitated among her musical skills by “the exact proportio[n]s of geometry.”93 Nearly a century later, when changing epistemologies and programs of education had largely separated art from science, John Birchensha’s manuscript Discourse of the Principles of the Practical & Mathematicall Partes of Musick emphasizes music’s debt to geometry and arithmetic for modeling acoustics. Uniting liberal mathematics with experimentalism, he explains that the work’s “Inspection both into the Arithm[etica]ll and Geometricall part of Musick” “considers a So[un]d as it hath a form. (concretely.) not barely as a so[un]d (i.e. Abstractly).”94 Geometric figures helped clarify musical practice throughout the seventeenth century. Physician Robert Fludd (1574–1637) uses a circle to demonstrate principles of transposition on the lute in his 1618 guide to “commonly known instruments.” Butler, conventionally fond of visual aids to help beginners conceptualize and recall fundamental principles of music, builds on a Continental tradition using the same figure to graph the cycle of tones. He presents the seven-­note scale with solmization syllables as a set of concentric circles. “The perpetual order of the Notes in the Gam-­ut (as of the Moones of the yeere),” says he with cross-­reference to a basic principle of astronomy, “is moste fitly exemplified in that Figure, which hath noe ende.”95 Forty years later, Thomas Mace similarly highlights the infinitude of the octave as a never-­ending spiral with the greatest mystery of eternity (“Magnum Mysterium Aeternitatis”)—“Great GOD”—at its center (fig. 3.6).96 Thus, he iterates for an age of experimentalism and mathematical proof the ancient position of liberal mathematics as precursors to divinity. In reference to more concrete products, Peacham the Younger reminds us that musical instruments, scientific instruments, and buildings were all constructed on geometrical principles: Shee [geometry] also with her ingenious hand reares all curious roofes and Arches, stately Theaters, the Culumnes simple and compounded, pendant Galleries, stately Windowes, Turrets, &c; and first brought to light our clockes and curious watches (unknowne unto the ancients) lastly our kitchen

Figure 3.6 Thomas Mace, Musicks Monument, p. 269. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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Jackes, even the wheele-­barrow. Beside whatsoever hath artificiall motion either by Ayre, water, winde, sinewes or chords, as all manner of Musicall instruments, water workes and the like.97

Diplomat Henry Wotton (1568–1639), who developed an interest in architecture during two decades in Italy, is even more adamant about the connection between musical harmony and building design, especially passageways between inside and out. For Wotton, the pleasing symmetry of doors and windows involves audiovisual synesthesia founded on Pythagorean principles: Of Doores and Windowes These In lets of Men and of Light, I couple together, because I find their due Dimensions, brought under one Rule, by . . . the comliest Proportion, betweene breadths and heights, Reducing Symmetrie to Symphonie, and the harmonie of Sounde, to a kinde of harmonie in Sight, after this manner: the two principall Consonances, that most ravish the Eare, are by consent of all Nature, the Fift, and the Octave; whereof the first riseth radically, from the proportion, betweene two and three. The other from the double Intervalle, betweene One and Two, or betweene Two and Foure, &c. Now if we shall transfer these proportions, from Audible to visible Objects . . . There will indubitably result from either, a gracefull and Harmonious contentment, to the Eye.98

Brathwaite, who considered the ear the organ of understanding with direct pathway to the heart, emphasizes that “the eye is the bodies guide” and sentinel. The two most powerful human senses are therefore complementary as well as synesthetically analogous.99 Dee borrows from Vitruvius to explain that architecture requires knowledge of both “Regular [i.e., practical] and Mathematicall [i.e. speculative] Musike” in conjunction with geometry, painting, perspective, and astronomy.100 The intellectually polymathic Fludd takes the opposite approach to the relationship between architecture and music by using a mnemonic device from classical oratory to create a mental space to store information for later recall. His repository for musical knowledge becomes a magnificent temple protected by the goddess Concordia. This imagined edifice is given graphic form in the practical music section of volume 2 of his monumental metaphysical, physical, and technical history of the visible and invisible aspects of the cosmos, Utriusque cosmi majoris scilicet Minoris Metaphysica, Physica Atque Technica Historia (1617–1619) (fig. 3.7). The fantastical structure is made up

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Figure 3.7 Robert Fludd, Utriusque cosmi majoris [. . .] Historia, p. 161. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

of ordered columns, arches, boxes (rooms), towers, doors, windows, a clock, organs, and other concretized features from which to retrieve information laid out in the seven chapters of “On the Temple of Music in which universal music is perceived as a mirror.” Fludd’s Temple offers component images that require both auditory and visual thinking to decode and include complementary bases in the quadrivial mathematics and classical fables.

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Figure 3.8 “The ladder to climb to Musicke.” William Barley, The Pathway to Musicke (London: John Benson, 1637), RB 497626, sig. A3. The Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

More concretely, with reference to Latin scala (ladder) and its cognate English verb to scale, Barley presents a ladder that “serveth the learner to climbe up to the knowledge of Musicke: or that he must ascend and descend therewith, as men doe in building,” specifically to learn “the common [musical] Scale” (fig. 3.8). Butler’s “brief Synopsis of the Scale, and other premises requisite to Singing” uses a more complicated stepped gradation to demonstrate fundamental aspects of notation. These pictorial-­kinesthetic devices, frequently used in music as well as other arts and sciences, reinforce Brathwaite’s observation that “the eye of my bodie allude[s] to the eye of my soule” to unify the physical world with interior realms of memory and imagination.101 They also emphasize Peacham the Elder’s insight that metaphorical translation from sense to intellect is “chiefly from sight, which is the most principall & perfect sense.”102 The intersection between sight and sound proved equally important to acoustic extensions into celestial realms. These domains foregrounded visuality but used hearing for conceptual reinforcement. Dee reminds readers of his astronomical and natural philosophical aphorisms that our senses wit-

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ness and interpret sensible phenomena. These, in turn, inspire intellectual response.103 He further explains that The revolution of the stars . . . has been established for the sake of that total and unceasing celestial harmony which reverberates from all the fixed stars: a harmony—which is a kind of first form of everything—by which they are bound mutually to each other and to the entire elemental kingdom and which shares the whole, in the fullest possible way, with each of its particles . . . the most beneficient and wise Maker of the whole having ordained things in this way.104

Here, the intellectually eclectic author recalls Platonic ideas of balance, order, and divine perfection as he builds on the Pythagorean idea of continuous music from the whirling spheres of heaven. This unceasing harmony unites the largest and smallest entities, and God and elemental particles, within a perfectly balanced everlasting system of radiance, sound, and motion. This aphorism also clarifies the harmonic origin of the universe in a metaphor that illustrates the temporal aspect of creation and its continuity in terms of the practical art that unfolds through time—but that also represents eternity. One of the most widespread applications of multisensory and physical-­ to-­metaphysical harmony and proportion was musical instruments as signifiers. With their geometric forms, tunability, tradition of representing sound visually, and their ancient position between audible and silent musics, they were eminently capable of evoking multiple human senses and cognitive processes. They enabled conceptualization of the sublime theorbo, “the World [as] Gods Organe,” and the human being as harp strung with the powers and faculties of the soul. They provided means for theatrical musicians to sound as an actor drew attention to the wooden “floor of heaven” representing the ethereal one (perhaps) formed from imperceptible music. Especially starting around 1600, musical instruments helped to unify past and present ideas about divinity, the natural world, and human knowledge. The luthiers of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries were especially aware of connections between geometry and Pythagorean cosmology. They conventionally patterned the circular rosettes covering the instrument’s sound hole with hidden signifiers of universal order for the wise to decode like any sort of emblem.105 Like Simpson’s division violist, the erudite lutenist could reflect on inaudible echoes of musical concordance while performing. Synthesizing the astronomical-­cosmological heritage and currently fash-

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ionable acoustic experiments, Simpson graphed in 1667 “The Analogy of Musical Concords to the Aspects of the Planets” according to “Arithmetical division [of the diapason with its included consonants] as experimentally found upon a Monochord, or the String of any fretted Instrument, from the Nut to the middle thereof.”106 Nine years later, Mace similarly updated fundamental Pythagorean principles for experimentally minded English readers, but from a specifically Christian perspective. He demonstrated “the Wonderfulness of the Almighties Mystical Being” by dividing strings of bowed and plucked instruments from the lute and bass viol to “Little Kitts, &c,” in half to produce endless octaves; he even asks his reader to “suppose a String to be 100000 Miles Long; or so Long, as would Encompass the whole Earth, or Heavens,” which would still produce an octave if divided in the middle.107 The Boethian heritage and textual transmission of cosmic signification for musical instruments continued through the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, especially among a contrasting kind of thinker before the Restoration. Dee, who owed a copy of Boethius’s De musica as well as Zarlino’s Institutioni harmoniem (i.e., harmoniche), takes a traditional text-­based approach to musical instruments as signifiers of universal harmony. For Dee, the universe was paradoxically created from nothing. He conceptualizes it as a lyre whose notes, brought forth from tunable strings, exemplify the infinite ways in which parts of the universe relate to each other and to the entirety. Bringing musica humana and doctrines of occult sympathies into the equation he explains that XI. The entire universe is like a lyre tuned by some excellent artificer, whose strings are separate species of the universal whole. Anyone who knew how to touch these dextrously and make them vibrate would draw forth marvelous harmonies. In himself, man is wholly analogous to the universal lyre. XII. Just as the lyre is an arrangement of harmonious and disharmonious tones, most apt for expressing a very sweet harmony which is wonderful in its infinite variety, so the universe includes within itself parts among which a most close sympathy can be observed, but also other parts among which there is harsh dissonance and a striking antipathy. The result is that the mutual concord of the former and the strife and dissention of the latter together produce a consent of the whole and a union eminently worthy of admiration.108

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These complementary images of the sublime string player and sympathetic or antipathetic vibration extended beyond natural philosophy, theology, and the fundamentals of music. With ancient roots and contemporary applicability to performance practices, they endured through the era of experimental philosophy and acoustics. They found allegorical expression in retellings of classical myths, cosmic origins, homage to David, the Christian soul as Quarles shows, and the concord of lovers, as we shall see. Christian readers and writers were cognizant not only of the Pythagorean heritage and its extensions into human and performative realms. They were equally aware of the exegetical tradition founded in patristic psalm commentaries whereby musical instruments represented divine things or the bond between God and the faithful.109 “Our cithara is the whole body, by whose movement and action the soul sings a fitting hymn to God” wrote Eusebius of Caesaria in the fourth century.110 Pseudo-­Origen adds that “The many strings brought together in harmony, each ordered musically in its proper place, are the many commandments and the doctrines concerning many things, which exhibit no discord among themselves. The instrument embracing all this is the soul of man wise in Christ.”111 An Elizabethan commonplace likened “the playing of the fingers” on instruments “to the charitable concord of the faithful: where every one hath a pleasure, in doing his dutie: which is most acceptable Musicke unto Gods eares.”112 In a political allegory of a living Christian king, Peacham the Younger replaces the lyre or cithara with a harp and the King of Heaven with his representative on Earth. Peacham’s emblem (fig. 3.9), presented as from the Irish Republic to James I, shows the body politic as a harp, an instrument not only associated with Ireland and the king’s native Scotland but with the biblical King David. The poetic epigram explains that the instrument had “yeelded nought save harsh, & hellish soundes” before it was repaired and tuned “with Ivorie key” by James. The engraved instrument is given ten strings, “the Number of all perfection” considered by Pythagoras “the receptacle and production of all things.”113 Thus is order made from chaos on multiple explanatory planes comprehensible to the intellect through the sense of hearing. Sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century English poets, most famously George Herbert, built on similar traditions to create allegories of faith in which God, Christ, or the soul provide and play stringed instruments with prominent tuning pegs or pins.114 These continued to stand metonymically for individual or collective bodies, sometimes transformed to the lute so well loved by contemporary literate musicians. “GOD binding with hid Tendons this great ALL,” begins William Drummond in his dedication to Scottish minister Archibald

Figure 3.9 Emblem “Hibernica Respub: ad Jacobum Regem” (The Republic of Ireland: To King James). Henry Peacham, Minerva Britanna, fol. 45. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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Simson’s Heptameron, The Seven Dayes: That is, Meditations and Prayers, Upon the worke of the Lords Creation, Did make a LUTE, which had all parts it given: The LUTES round Bellie was the azur’d Heaven; The Rose those Lights which Hee did there install: The Basses were the Earth and Ocean: The Treble shrill the Aire; the other Strings, The unlike bodies, were of mixed things: And then His Hand to break sweete Notes began. Those loftie Concords did so farre rebound, That Floods, Rocks, Meadows, Forrests did them heare: Birds, Fishes, Beasts danc’d to their silver sound. Onlie to them Man had a deafned Eare. Now him to rouse from sleepe so deepe and long, God wak’ned hath the Eccho of this Song.115

The ultimate image of a tunable string making order from primordial chaos is probably Fludd’s divine monochord that similarly has “all parts it given.” It certainly provides the era’s widest single synthesis of natural, mystical, and practical approaches to musical instruments between physical sound and metaphysical significance (fig. 3.10). The conventionally signified right hand of God reaches from an occluding cloud as in Salmon’s later frontispiece. It tunes the paradoxically visible “hid tendon” of the massive instrument that stretches between heaven and earth to orient each part of “this great ALL” to its assigned note. The engraving belongs to chapter 3, “De Monocordo Mundano,” of book 3, “De Musica Mundana,” of the first volume of the same monumental work that also includes the more practical “Temple of Music.”116 Fludd’s monochord reiterates the importance of music to his conceptual universe through its paradoxical physicality, ontological mystery, and ability to be produced by natural and artificial means. It illustrates the tripartite Boethian division of the art. Here music serves as a manifestation of God and his work because, like God, it is present but invisible.117 With its unitary string, easily demonstrable tonal intervals, and association with Pythagorean experiments with the audible scale, this monochord represents both divine action and the hierarchical order of the cosmos. Here is indeed a God who has played the part of a notable musician and geometrician. Here is an

Figure 3.10 Robert Fludd, Utriusque cosmi maioris . . . historia, p. 90. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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audiovisual metaphor making manifest ancient, complex things of the mind through the senses. Fludd divides the string, stretched between the heavens and the earth as Mace later challenges his readers to imagine, into two equal octaves. The upper or spiritual one gives eternal life, while the lower material one represents the transitoriness of God’s created world. These octaves are further divided into scale degrees based on a pyramidal foundation in light and matter that borrows from geometrical and acoustical theory. The hierarchy of this instrument reflects the grades of all things like a mirror, and the intervals of the scale are the degrees of descent of the formal principle into matter. Within this scheme, the sun receives light through the harmony of the spiritual octave, and the Earth receives the Creator’s influence through the material one. This image truly presents divinity as a perfect union of the auditory, the visual, the mathematical, and the conceptual.118 Fludd’s insights into musical cosmology stood outside mainstream seventeenth-­century natural philosophy, although they drew on a common stock of ideas. His notions of cosmic harmony led to controversy with Johannes Kepler, Marin Mersenne, and Pierre Gassendi, if not at home.119 Only three years after publication of the first volume of his Utriusque cosmi majoris in Oppenheim, Ben Jonson’s London court masque Newes from the New World Discover’d in the Moone reduced celestial harmony to sheer lunacy and Pythagoreanism to overspecialized technobabble: Chr[onicler]. In what language [did the far-­voyaging poet speak to the denizens of the moon] good sir? 2[nd] He[rald]. Onely by signes and gestures, for they have no articulate voyces there, but certaine motions to musicke: all the discourse there is harmonie. Fac[tor]. A fine Lunatique language i’faith; how doe their Lawyers then? 2[nd] Her[ald]. They are Pythagoreans, all dumbe as fishes, for they have no controversies to exercise themselves in.120

Jonson’s cuttingly satiric vision of Pythagoreans supports what royal tutor Roger Ascham (1514/15–1568) had warned an earlier generation of would-­ be courtiers: too much time spent in quadrivial contemplation, especially music, is intellectually harmful, isolating, and antisocial.121 Jonson’s dialogue also serves as a reminder that the harmonic doctrines that had long served natural philosophy and divinity were, by the start of the seventeenth century, subject to increasing skepticism. However, the tunable universe, with

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its extensions into the divine and human worlds, and its comprehensibility through graphs and instruments remained useful in music theory and pedagogy, applied mathematical practices, and the symbolic discourses of poetics and emblematics.

“ Profound Contemplation of Secret Things ” : Magic, Occult Doctrines, and Music The fact that the mathematics could model, illuminate, or even reveal cosmic secrets, especially those relating to divinity, made them as suspect to some Tudor and Stuart thinkers as they were embraced by others. Because of their proximity to eternity, mathematics were the era’s most intoxicating sciences, occasionally code for spiritually dangerous practices.122 Brathwaite rebukes their potential to lead the curious to delve too deeply into divine secrets: What singular Conclusions have been drawne from [the Mathematicks] by the Line of Art? What Secretes above humane conceit have been drained and derived from that mysterious knowledge? Wherein many have offended rather by being too curious, than by being too little solicitous. Whence it was, that Euclid being demanded by one too inquisitive in the secrecies of heaven, touching a question, which (as he thought) was more profound than profitable, he answered: Surely I know not this, but this much I know, that God hateth such as are curious searchers after his secrets.123

Brathwaite’s emphasis on mystery and secrecy is a reminder that at least some mathematics, including music, served what was broadly construed as occult thought during his era. Before the end of the nineteenth century, occult did not connote the supernatural but things concealed. Concealment implies the possibility of revelation, never more so than between the fifteenth and seventeenth centuries.124 The two words that most often define occult in early modern English dictionaries are hidden and secret. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, occult not only suggested many sorts of secrets; it also implied latent potential, imperceptible things that might be discoverable through experimentation, things not apprehended directly by the mind, and things pertaining to arts or sciences involving mysterious agency such as alchemy, astrology, and magic.125 By this reasoning, any of the mathematics could include occult applications. A vestige of this idea remains in a con-

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ventional signifier of the (benign) wizard of modern fantasy fiction: clothing decorated with astronomical objects, geometric shapes, numerical symbols, and signifiers of arithmetic operations. In early modern England, alchemy, astrology, and magic were often considered extensions of the four core mathematics; other applications of mathematical knowledge, such as numerology and iatromathematics, also dealt with hidden properties. Of these, the most broadly construed and difficult to define was magic. Printer, globe maker, and Royal Society member Joseph Moxon’s (1627–1691) mathematical dictionary of 1679 offers a succinct definition of the term that would have been recognizable, if not comprehensive, during the entire early modern era: Magick, (from Magos, a Greek word signifying an Interpreter of Divine Mysteries, properly the study of Natural Wisdom)[.] A good and innocent Science, teaching the knowledge and mutual application of Actives to Passives, thereby performing many excellent and wonderful works. Such were the Three Magi, or Wise men, that came out of the east to worship our Savoiur. But afterwards the Study being depraved by the Arabians and fill’d with many Superstitious Vanities, the word became to be taken in an ill sense, for Conjuration, or some such wicked Art, that by confederacy with the Devil, does either truly do, or rather in a juggling, deceitful way seem to perform some Miraculous Operations, or above the ordinary attainment of Humane Nature. In which Pliny represents Zoroaster as the first Grand Master.126

Moxon’s definition incorporates several key features of premodern magic also recognized by twentieth- and twenty-­first-­century scholars. First, there is no more question of its existence or routine use than for, say, music or multiplication, both defined nearby in the same dictionary.127 Second, the sort of magic Moxon discusses, generally known as “natural” because it does not (knowingly) involve demonic power or “confederacy with the Devil,” is a science of divine origin. This positions it between religion and natural philosophy (or what later became science), where we have seen other mathematics, especially music and astronomy. Magic, at least the kind Moxon defines, is therefore no less compatible with Christianity than other “good and innocent” mathematics. Third, it is based on efficacious practice (“application of Actives to Passives”) as opposed to remaining content with contemplation or proceeding no further than theory. Magical operations were meant to produce results. Fourth, magic is considered to have arrived in Europe from the East (perhaps originating in Zoroastrian Persia) and was used in ancient Greece

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and Rome. Finally, questionable practices by members of groups to which the writer does not belong have misappropriated or misrepresented magic, resulting in an unjustified negative reputation through which it had become associated with superstition, diabolism, and legerdemain.128 Occult traditions before the eighteenth century were posited on the belief that the universe was not a silent void punctuated by unfeeling objects. The premodern cosmos was a series of living, pulsing entities arranged by the Creator in a never-­ending chain whose secret links and properties could be discovered and manipulated by appropriately learned individuals. Sometimes this did involve confederacy with the devil or familiar demons, since many kinds of spirit beings inhabited spaces from subterranean realms to the highest heaven. The created world included an infinitude of the same kinds of correspondences, reflections, similitudes, and hidden connections between superficially discrete entities as did audible and inaudible musics. In contrast to metaphor, a linguistic tool through which compared entities retain independence, occult relationships enabled members of the same set to influence each other or exchange identities.129 Action at any point of such a network could result in reaction elsewhere. That which was hidden could be revealed in the process to those trained to apply the correct actives to passives (or sometimes actives to actives) and interpret the results. At some level, all things could communicate in humanly comprehensible terms. Magic and other occult practices were thus means by which people solved problems and puzzles, demonstrating the triumph of human intellect over the material and conceptual worlds. Through such practices, the distance between things—of sense, mind, physics, metaphysics, temporality, or eternity—­ collapsed. A vast majority of people from all walks of life accepted at least some forms of magic. Skepticism, especially after the Reformation, was about particular forms (mis)practiced or accepted by the credulous, the deluded, the ignorant Other.130 That said, few historical topics remain as slippery as magic and other occult sciences. These incorporated ideas and methods transmitted over many years, in many forms, between multiple cultures, and not always in ways meant to be grasped by the uninitiated. No single definition is comprehensive enough to cover in any meaningful way all relevant early modern practices. Some remained contrary to religious and civil law. These were genuinely threatening to individuals and communities, and they constituted capital crimes. Some are difficult to distinguish from each other, even those involving natural and demonic agency. Conversely, those occult sciences that seem to have definite objectives and methods, such as alchemy or astrology, were not firmly stan-

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dardized or necessarily practiced in isolation from others.131 Brathwaite’s reference to secrets about human conceit serves as a reminder that early modern magic, broadly construed, went far beyond mathematics. It included, among other practices, Kabbalah, divination, witchcraft, necromancy, demonology, theurgy, and what Walter Ralegh lumps together with deliberate vagueness as “divers kindes of unlawfull Magicke.” Medical and occult writer Robert Turner (1619/20–­after 1665) reminds “the unprejudiced reader” of his 1665 translation of Agrippa’s purported Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy that the term Magus “of itself imports a Contemplator of divine and heavenly Sciences; but under the name of Magick are all unlawfull Arts comprehended; as Necromancy and Witchcraft, and such Arts as are effected by divination with the devil.” The moral status, intention, and sincere Christian humility of the practitioner therefore also contributed to the acceptability of magical practices.132 It is worth noting that the era’s only definition of magic specifically aimed at women—from Bullokar’s heavily didactic dictionary of 1616—is also one of the most negative. It warns readers that whatever status the practice may have once had, they must shun it.133 No less than the reigning King of England had stated that women were frailer than men and therefore more easily entrapped by the gross snares of the devil.134 The most high-­status occult practices remained the province of literate men even if supported by high-­ranking women such as Elizabeth I. Ever in the shadow of religion as much as philosophy, the most acceptable forms of magic—also those about which most musical information survives—remained dedicated to knowledge concealed by divine agency in natural things. “I think that Magick is nothing else but the survey of the whole course of Nature” concludes Dee’s Neapolitan contemporary, Giambattista (Giovanni Battista) della Porta, in English translation. Translations of influential Continental magi Agrippa and Paracelsus concurred. So did native writers such as Moxon and Ralegh.135 The same uneasy plurality of Christian practice and frequent changes to official state religion that influenced sacred music likewise affected the course of magic and other occult sciences in early modern England. Acceptable use of any of these at any time between the first stirrings of the Reformation and the end of the seventeenth century depended largely on current intersections between court (or national) politics, ecclesiastical politics, and available patronage, the meeting point also underlying Peacham’s emblematic tribute to James I. Aspects of Christian theology and natural philosophy not only retained close ties to occult thought in England through the end of the seven-

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teenth century, they were sometimes linked to it, positively or negatively, for political reasons, especially when the dominant religion was under perceived threat.136 From the 1530s onward, mainstream Reformers positioned themselves volubly against “superstitious” Catholic practices such as the “abuse” of images and use of sacramental objects to repel demons. Increasingly from around a half century later, Church of England officials and their supporters attacked popular magical practices and radical Reform claims to miracles and direct spiritual inspiration. Starting in the 1540s, some English Catholic clergy tacitly accepted Reformist critiques of particularly magical rites. These men, too, distanced themselves from long-­standing popular magical beliefs and practices. The best-­known Elizabethan practitioner of occult sciences, John Dee, lived his eighty-­two years through the most religiously volatile period in British history. His wide-­ranging investigations into cosmic secrets included mathematical and spiritual practices, among them direct communication with nonhuman intelligences. Dee belonged to the last generation of English Christians whose belief system was set under the unitary pre-­Reformation Church, with its emphasis on protection from a demon-­ haunted universe and its constant rhythm of multisensory rituals founded on piety and magic. Dee spent significant time in Catholic lands. His professional fortunes suffered as his English patrons of similar age died out and as mainstream English ecclesiastical politics shifted to further repudiate radicalism. In contrast, the most famous late seventeenth-­century English magus, Isaac Newton (1642–1727), spent his similarly long life in a historically Protestant nation with prominent Catholic presence marked by political uncertainty and tension among several Christian sects. He worked entirely within the framework his older contemporary Moxon delineates as a branch of mathematics and has been remembered as an early scientist in the modern sense as well as a natural philosopher. Both Dee and Newton remained devout Christians, at least nominally conforming to official English practice, and both delved into speculative music even if they did not play instruments or sing socially.137 Finally, as with other forms of knowledge, information about elite branches of occult thought was transmitted textually, subject to similar processes of interpretation and recombination. Some magical practices relied at least as much on words and images as on mathematical underpinnings, making textual sources especially important. Interest among the most literate early modern practitioners and patrons was stimulated by the fifteenth-­ century rediscovery and translation into Latin of ancient magical texts. These included several important Platonic and Neoplatonic works and a corpus at

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first attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, the shadowy ancient patron of the arcane who, like the later Pythagoras, was believed to predate the coming of Christ and to stand at the vital interface between the limits of human cognition and divine revelation.138 What is sometimes considered the final flowering of the most esoteric forms of natural magic took place in England during the seventeenth century, largely derived from such fifteenth- through early seventeenth-­century Continental thinkers as Agrippa, Ficino, Parcelsus, and Porta. Key writings by these four became accessible to English readers from the sixteenth century onward through the international book trade, translation, and citation and reference by native scholars, including Case in Apologia musices.139 Some of the best-­loved Greek and Roman classics read, translated, and adapted in sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century England resound with ancient magic, including tales of musical magi such as Orpheus and Amphion. As with medieval and early modern epics in the same traditions, such literary representations of magical practices, practitioners, and beings were not necessarily meant to be taken literally. The ever-­skeptical Francis Bacon especially disparages readers who do so, implying a range of individual interpretation.140 The constant stream of multimedia entertainment depicting magic and witchcraft from Elizabethan and Stuart England, including broadside ballads and some of the most spectacularly musical dramas of the entire era, demonstrates an extension of such tradition into mass media meant to reach consumers across social and economic lines.141 With its long-­established position between sensation and intellect, things manifest and hidden, and all forms of concord and numeric proportion, music had a distinct place in magical and other occult practices. Most importantly, music stood among the mathematics on which at least some occult sciences were founded, rendering it into a basic tool for them. Music and magic shared abstract numerical roots. Both had sometimes controversial connections to divinity and were insubstantial forces able to cause evident effects on tangible bodies. Both could be directed by physical objects, including specially constructed instruments made of natural materials. Bacon, for whom contemporary natural magic had become a degenerate science marred by “certain credulous and superstitious traditions,” explains that Magia had once been the honorable study of “the Harmony and concents of universalls in Nature.”142 Agrippa more clearly explains magic in terms that not only include music but that recall Morley’s definition of the speculative sort with its mathematical assistance, underlying causality, and natural properties. The distinction is that magic goes beyond contemplation to do wonderful things. So the magician’s expertise in music helps yield practical results:

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The doctrines of Mathematicks are so necessary to, and have such an affinity with Magick, that they that do profess without them, are quite out of the way, and labour in vain. . . . Hence a Magician expert in naturall Philosophy, and Mathematicks, and knowing the middle sciences consisting of both these, Arithmetick, Musick, Geometry, Opticks, Astronomie, and such sciences may without any wonder, do many wonderful things.143

Magic therefore extended smoothly from contemplation to action, or the intellectual to the physical. This made it similar to music, one of the sciences necessary for working its natural branches. The fact that, in contrast to the other ancient mathematics, music involves up to five senses in performance presumably only enhanced its utility in magical operations. So did the fact that music itself lacks tangible form or substance but is both produced by and affects living and nonliving bodies. At one level, for minds trained to seek correspondences between evidently discrete entities of sense and intellect, wherever music was made in the context of other kinds of harmony, order, or proportion—wherever it could be an active applied to a passive—there was potential for magical use. Musical harmony was not only efficacious in magic but remained among the magician’s chief means of conceptualizing world structure.144 Like music, magic bridged sense and intellect so that mind and body, or self and cosmos, became fluid continuities. So similar was music to magic that properties of both could be exchanged; at least one English interpretation of the tale of Amphion attributes the hero’s power not to his knowledge of music but his “connyng in Magique.”145 The broad potential for use of music in magical operations makes locating actual English applications challenging, especially before the seventeenth century and outside of the kind of acoustical experiments Penelope Gouk discusses.146 At what point did coaxing music from a lute on which the left hand divides strings while the right conjures sound from a resonating chamber topped by a miniature signifier of the cosmos become magic? Did playing a seven-­fretted division viol while considering the seven planets and their occult music constitute meditation, metaphorical thought, a means to tap into higher power—or only a way to sell a book to as wide an audience as possible? Did civic and royal ceremonial musics, especially before the Interregnum, ever not at least suggest corresponding forms of concord between individual persons, the body politic, and well-­ordered elements from earth to heaven? In minds trained to seek hidden correspondences and for whom (natural) magic was as routine as any mathematical science, when might such performances have shifted between community building, metaphor, and effi-

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cacious practice? The politically canniest of the musically trained Tudor monarchs, Elizabeth I, certainly used every possible connection between audible and inaudible musics to enhance her reputation and the harmony of her kingdom through musical magic.147 The situation becomes even more complicated when writers like Case remind us not only that “Daemonas esse, chorus philosophorum docuit” (Demons are, as a chorus of philosophers teaches) but include beings, both benign and evil, that enjoy, produce, and respond to music. Some particularly malicious ones are even repelled by it.148 Since traffic with demons was punishable by death during the early modern era, documentation about the use of music to contact or control them is notably lacking. Reform controversies over church bells, traditionally associated with repelling evil spirits, may be all that remains about any such practices.149 On the other hand, especially before the mid-­seventeenth century, even more beings were associated with music and could, with the right application, be summoned by it. Agrippa’s attributed Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy, printed posthumously in 1559 and in English translation in 1665, explains that “there is another kinde of Spirits . . . not so hurtful, and nearest men . . . that . . . are affected with humane passions, and do joy in the conversation of men, and freely do inhabit with them.” These, states the author, can be called “with sweet sounds and instruments of Musick, specially composed for the business,” and seem much like native English and Northern European descriptions of notoriously music-­loving fairy folk.150 Those preternaturally powerful musicians of antiquity, sometimes considered divinities and sometimes heroes or ancient magi, were also occasionally classified among benign spirit beings of the sort described by Case and (pseudo?-­)Agrippa. During the 1540s, physician, magician, and scam artist Gregory Wisdom may have attempted to give his patron Henry, Lord Neville, musical instruments supposedly enchanted by “the god Orpheus” in a rite of conjuration. Perhaps the foundation for Wisdom’s deceitful “juggling” lay in knowledge about Ficino’s Orphic hymns, or in the Platonic-­Ficinian idea that artificial things made of natural components, such as lyres, were efficacious in magic.151 Any repertory associated with this kind of operation has also been lost, if it were ever inscribed in England. In light of such tantalizing traces, practices they may have represented, and the long-­standing literary descriptions of magic that may or may not be intended as accurate, how might songs like Thomas Campion’s “Thrice Toss These Oaken Ashes” (fig. 3.11) have been received? This musically typical strophic lute ayre was published in the composer’s Third and Fourth Booke of Ayres in 1617, the same year as the first volume of Fludd’s Utriusque cosmi

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Figure 3.11 “Thrice Toss These Oaken Ashes.” Thomas Campion, Third and Fourth Booke of Ayres (London: Thomas Snodham, 1617), sig. D2. Call # STC4548. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

majoris.152 Dramatic representations of magic and witchcraft were all the rage around that time in the composer’s native London, while printers and booksellers were capitalizing on accounts of actual witch trials.153 Two of the three four-­line stanzas of Campion’s song text constitute instructions for a ritual that unifies love charms, prescribed gestures, and materials that cross the line between nature and sorcery. The third opens with a summons for fairies to assist in melting the heart of the narrator’s uncaring beloved. Poet Campion dissolves his own “spell” with the final couplet, shifting into first person to explain “In vaine are all the charmes I can devise; She hath an Arte to breake them with her eyes.” There is nothing unusual about the music, although in context, a magical number of stanzas with a magical number of lines is likely significant; the “instructional” text even orders the “practitioner” to perform the first three ritual acts in multiples of three. The textual conclusion brings the song back into the same context as countless others about unrequited love. Yet especially in

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private, how might the song have been interpreted? Was it a way for a recreational musician to enjoy the kind of thrill featured in the London theater during the same decade, a way to play a forbidden kind of person for a few moments, or to indulge without real consequence in unholy rituals? Could it render an actual or imagined beloved dangerous or even more desirable in context? Was it a country conceit for city dwellers, another current fashion in musical entertainment?154 Or might the combination of words and notes have been used earnestly by a lovesick performer to heal the dysregulatory symptoms of the disease? If so, would he (or perhaps a transgressive she) have hoped for relief by virtue of music, by imagining potentially dangerous rites performed by a fellow sufferer, or by enacting any of Campion’s instructions somewhere between desire, belief, and make-­believe? After all, on no less than Platonic authority, magic was closely linked to erotic desire and its appeasement. And music had a long history of use against erotic illness.155 By the end of Campion’s century, however, there was little question of efficacious use of magical song or instrumental music. Tales of Orpheus, Amphion, and other ancient musicians were no longer held to exemplify actual— and therefore theoretically reproducible—power over the unseen world. Instead, they came to be interpreted as poetic conceit or indicators of the aesthetic and social value of performable music. Music relating to nonhuman intelligences such as demons, witches, fairies, and other spirits remained great entertainment, but it had moved fully into the realms of history and allegory.156 Magic, with its mathematical-­musical underpinnings, had shifted firmly from the haunted late medieval universe of Dee’s formative years to the more mechanistic one of Newton’s maturity.

Hidden Harmonies of Earth and Heaven: Alchemy and Astrology Alchemy and astrology are often connected to magic because all three rely on the application of mathematical principles to natural phenomena. And all three render occult entities and processes manifest. Each was compatible with Christianity as long as participants did not pursue secrets beyond those divinely embedded in the natural world. All three involve music because of its place among the quadrivium and its bridge between abstraction and sensation. By the early modern era, all three incorporated a tangled web of contrasting practices and inherited belief systems. Each underwent tremendous change and was subject to controversy, especially from competing commu-

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nities of faith and the political establishments that supported or suppressed them. All three can be difficult to distinguish from each other and were sometimes practiced in complement, and alchemy and astrology are broadly considered branches of magic. But each has distinct features in terms of immediate goals and methods. Alchemy and astrology promised the greatest temporal rewards and therefore probably attracted the largest number of charlatans as well as sincere practitioners, patrons, and adherents from across social ranks. Alchemy and astrology also had more voluble detractors in England than did (natural) magic, especially as the seventeenth century progressed. Alchemy, according to (pseudo?-)Agrippa, was simply “transmutation of Metals.”157 It was a science of material transformation and by extension spiritual renewal. As such, it was vital to many in ecclesiastical and political power in England. For Elizabeth I, alchemy had the potential to simultaneously halt bodily and social corruption. For mid-­seventeenth-­century adepts, it offered a means to redeem and reunite a fractured nation-­state. But it was far from universally accepted. For detractors, alchemy usurped questions best left to theology, such as predestination and free will, or it was a nonsensical science for the credulous, the epitome of quackery.158 Like music, alchemy was an art with practical and esoteric aspects that could render philosophical principles evident through specialized instruments and prescribed processes. At its most basic, sidestepping questions about human destiny or social order, alchemy was defined in England as “the Art of dissolving of metals” or “the art of distilling or drawing quintessences out of metals by fire, separating the pure from the impure, setting at liberty such bodies as are bound and imprisoned, and bringing to perfection such as are unripe.” Bullokar, so set against his era’s degenerate magical practices, presents “Alchymie” simply as “the art of melting or dissolving the nature of metals, by separating the pure from the impure parts thereof.”159 These are temporal, performative processes by which constituent items are separated, transformed, and (re)combined in specific proportion, and they require judgment by sense and intellect. The same may be said of music. Thomas Norton’s Ordinall of Alchymy, written in English verse in 1477 and extant in thirty-­ one manuscript copies and one print version between then and 1652, explains the importance of each liberal art, astrology, optics, and natural magic in alchemical operations. “Joyne your Elements Musically,” says Norton after discussing arithmetic operations, For two causes, one is for Melody: Which there accords will make to your mind,

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The trew effect when that ye shall finde. And also for like as Diapason, With Diapente and with Diatesseron, With hypateypaton, and Leucanes muse, With other accords which in Musick be With their proporcions causen Harmony, Much like proportions be in Alkimy.160

Norton’s directions are presumably deliberately imprecise because alchemy was a doctrine of secrecy. Nonetheless, he tells readers that music is vital to alchemical process because of its melodic accord and because the proportions of its consonances resemble those of alchemy. The music Norton describes belongs to intellect weighed by reason: speculation in the Boethian sense. But it also involves efficacious sympathy with constituent elements and application of at least a potentially audible proportion to that of the tangible, visible mixture. In spite of the evident popularity of Norton’s poem, at least among a certain sort of manuscript collector, music seems to have been little discussed in relation to alchemy in England. In contrast to Italian and German lands in the same era, or throughout Western Europe during the Middle Ages, details about alchemical music or musicians’ involvement with alchemy remain elusive for early modern England.161 Perhaps English alchemists were better at keeping secrets about the musical aspects of their art. Perhaps further information will yet come to light. The celestial science of astrology had more evident affinity with music in England. As we have seen, when premodern Europeans turned from themselves to the heavens, musica mundana and Pythagorean proportionality offered immediate connectivity and potent conceptual apparatuses. We have also seen astrology and music classified together among sciences that apply abstract mathematical ideas to perceptible outcomes. Norton unifies the two as adjuncts to alchemy, as does Agrippa for magic.162 Astrology made physical and metaphysical assertions about the nature and position of all earthly things, including human lives, in relation to heavenly bodies. Turner explains it as “a second kinde of Magicke . . . which judgeth of the events and things to come, natural and humane, by the motions and influences of the Stars upon the lower elements, by them observ’d and understood.”163 This makes it the celestial form of natural magic, concerned with effects of the macrocosm on the microcosm. It was also grounded in Aristotelian natural philosophy. Until the late seventeenth century in England, astrology remained almost inseparable from astronomy, geometry, and Pythagorean numer-

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ology. It was studied seriously by mathematicians, astronomers, and natural philosophers.164 The earliest English-­language definition of astrology, from Elyot’s 1538 dictionary, presents it as “the speculation of astronomie.”165 This connects it immediately to the other liberal mathematics, especially music, with its vital sensory-­intellectual bridge between speculation and practice. Since all things on earth were affected by things in the heavens, astrology was essential to disciplines that considered earthly entities and phenomena, including medicine, agriculture, botany, metallurgy, alchemy, and the human sciences. Each of the five named planets, the sun, the moon, and the stars possessed specific qualities and distinct effects that were transferred to the earth’s inhabitants through radiant heat and light. Their influences modified each other as they moved into and out of conjunction, and they transmitted unique qualities to the four sublunary elements (earth, air, fire, and water) of which all earthly things were made. They did the same for the four physiological qualities (heat, cold, dryness, and moisture) that helped constitute living things. They governed the four seasons and due process of the year. Dee presents astrology as “an Arte Mathematicall, which reasonably demonstrateth the operations and effects of the natural beames of light, and secret influence: of the Sterres and Planets: in every element and elementall body: at all times.” It is, he tells us, especially reliant on astronomy, perspective, cosmography, natural philosophy, “and some good understanding in Musik.”166 If premodern astronomy was the practical study of celestial motion, astrology was an introspective, anthropocentric extension that explained earthly phenomena in terms of the motions, natures, and properties of these “Sterres and Planets.” In contrast to astronomy, which “teacheth the knowledge of the course of the Planets, Stars and other celestial Motions,” Blount states that astrology “tells the Reasons of the Stars and Planets motions.”167 It constituted the environmental science of a humanity whose habitat was the magical cosmos pulsing with interconnected energies and numinous intelligences in which influence originated in and radiated downward from celestial realms. Those with proper training could read its secret signposts; in Blount’s terms, astrology “professeth to discover the influence and domination of the superior Globe [of the heavens] over the inferior [of the Earth].”168 As with other occult sciences, skepticism about certain goals and methods of astrology, along with questions of compatibility with Christian teachings across the confessional spectrum, kept it from universal acceptance in England. This was especially so during the religious and political upheavals of the seventeenth century also coincident with growing acceptance of new theories of celestial mechanics. Cockeram considers astrology “an Art fore-

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telling many thinges to come by Planets & starres.” Ralegh circumvents questionable use by emphasizing its ancient utility in agriculture and husbandry, especially “with respect to sowing and planting.” Bullokar and Blount both classify astrology as “natural Divination,” and stipulate that it is only legitimate as long as it remains within “due limits” and “aggregates not too much to its certainty.”169 In other words, as with alchemy, astrology was only acceptable in post-­Reformation England when it avoided the province of theology, especially relating to free will and predestination. Some natural philosophers refused to accept it at all. Bacon lumps astrology together with divination and dreams under “Superstitions” and with natural magic and alchemy as “degenerate,” pretentious, and overreliant on imagination and belief. Moxon omits definition because astrology is “difficult, and vain,” although he does discuss Arabian practice by which it “signifies a temporary power which the Planets claim over the life of a Native [i.e., newborn].” As early as the mid-­ Elizabethan era, Dee criticized misguided practitioners who either credited heavenly bodies with too much or too little influence over the elemental world or who misapplied the art “for vayne glory, or gaine.” He emphasizes that true astrology, modestly used, glorifies God, and its practitioners recognize the limits of their art.170 Music maintained connection with astrology through membership among the four liberal mathematics, the evident and hidden harmonies of the Pythagorean-­Boethian cosmos, and Pythagorean numerology. Like music, astrology was rooted in numbers, figures, and objects of the senses. And the stars and planets whose motions it interpreted were notoriously musical. Correspondences abounded between the audible and inaudible musics of heavenly bodies, terrestrial bodies, human practice, and immortal souls. According to Boethius and his followers, each of the seven planets (the sun, the moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, and Saturn) eternally sounded its one of the seven notes of the scale based on Pythagorean ratios.171 Ingpen reiterates the proportional harmonies between the seven planets, earth, and “the starry element” in terms similar to Holland’s translation of Pliny but with more exact measure of “the space betwixt the earth and the Moon.” He concludes that From hence [between the sun and stars], by proportion of those planeticall moovings, one to another, and with the eigtth [sic] heaven, the sweetest Musick of all others resulteth. Out of which may be gathered, that what from the Fabrick of this whole

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Universe; what from the symmetry, proportion, harmony of all his parts linked together; what from the mutuall concent of the heavens, Planets, elements, there is nothing that beautifieth to workmanship of the Creator more, nothing that so lively setteth out the creature, as musick.172

In addition, the twelvefold division of the octave, founded on Pythagorean cosmology, corresponded to the twelve signs of the zodiac. Practical music was believed capable of summoning benign influences from the tuned spheres of heaven based on the attraction between parallel elements at different cosmic levels. So humanly performable music was an especially powerful tool in operations to attract desirable planetary influences. However, as with alchemical and magical musics, astrological music mostly belonged to an undiscussed oral tradition destined to remain lost.173 This seems especially so for England, where the same radical Reform factions that distrusted secular music shunned nontheological means of seeking cosmic secrets and where skeptics such as Bacon and Moxon reviled astrology for its imprecise methods.174 Nevertheless, traces of the rich intellectual heritage of astrological music remain. We have seen that for Gosson, true music came not from artificial instruments but from the order of the celestial spheres and concord of the (four sublunary) elements of which all earthly creatures were made and sustained. Campion extends the same Boethian idea through resemblance to the fundamental parts of composed music, each of which also has its own nature and native property: The parts of Musicke are in all but foure, howsoever some skilfull Musitions have composed songs of twenty, thirty, and forty parts: for be the parts never so many, they are but one of these foure parts in nature. The names of those foure parts are these. The Base which is the lowest part and the foundation of the whole song: The Tenor, placed next above the Base: next above the Tenor the Meane or Counter-­Tenor, and in the highest place the Treble. These foure parts by the learned are said to resemble the foure Elements, the Base expresseth the true nature of the earth, who being the gravest and lowest of all the Elements, is a foundation to the rest. The Tenor is likened to the water, the Meane to the Aire, and the Treble to the Fire. Moreover . . . I affirme that the true sight and judgement of the upper three must proceed from the lowest, which is the Base, and also I conclude that every part in nature doth affect his proper and naturall place as the elements doe.175

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The harmonic basis of audible music is therefore similar to that on which the entire cosmos depended. Both are composed of four elements with specific, invariable properties that, when combined, yield an infinitude of unique results. Both sets of four—the one with which musicians work and the one that makes all things of the world in which they live—range upward from heaviest to lightest. Ingpen explains that “out of the foure elements, and their three Interstitia . . . there is a final and absolute comixtion of all kindes of bodies: That, as by the ternary number there is a copulation made of everything so by the quaterne they are made perfect . . . comming so neere to the perfection of the soule.”176 The “ternary” (multiplication by three) of four elements results in the number of zodiacal signs, the months of the year, and, for the musically inclined, the number of notes in the octave including semitones. The circular shape of many lute rosettes of Campion’s era also enclose symmetrical groupings of four (the elements, seasons, bodily humors—and basic number of voices) and of twelve (signs of the zodiac—and the chromatic scale) divisions, further enhancing the instruments’ capacities to connect the knowing performer or listener to higher things.177 Perhaps at some level the same was true of consorts of four instruments from the same family, especially a matched treble-­alto-­tenor-­bass set made from the same wood and sounding together on the four (or eight, or twelve) constituent parts of a piece. Beyond the four sublunary elements, astrological doctrine held that each planet possessed and exerted a unique complex of inherent virtues or powers on all lower entities. Some were beneficent and some malign. Furthermore, within the cosmic matrix of signs and symbols that pointed toward a final Truth, the celestial orbs united with the classical deities for whom they were named to become singular entities of power, myth, and destiny. Each was associated with specific sensory pleasures as well as internal faculties of the soul. The one most closely connected to the sense of hearing was Mercury, celestial governor of reason and imagination and inventor of the lyre. Numerous Continental images and even a few instruments from the fifteenth through seventeenth centuries pay tribute to his musicality and his position as celestial patron of music, and they were perhaps meant to attract his planetary influence. Ingpen describes Mercury’s music by saying that it “hath remissious concents, multiplicitous, and with a certain strenuity, joviall and jocund.” Venus was associated with touch and taste. She was also linked to music, both constructive and destructive, in keeping with her position as planetary cause of true love and deadly lust.178 In English writings, Venus, patroness of pleasure for whom things of sense stood above things of reason, is most fre-

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quently referenced in relation to music. “Venus is rather cool and moist,” says one J. B. in his 1680 treatise Hagiastrologia, or, The most sacred and divine science of astrology, “and . . . Venus stirs up exceedingly unto all manner of delights and pleasures, as unto Musick, Play, Merriment, Marriage, and all kind of such like matters.”179 Like early modern conceptions of music, this planet and her namesake goddess whispered alternately of heavenly rapture and the unhappy seduction of reason through sense. Venus was the celestial harbinger of dawn, rising from the sea as night turned to day. But she was also the evening star, beckoning more brightly as daylight faded. She brought people together in (metaphorical) harmony but was patroness of whores and courtesans as well as true lovers. It was her glowing orb which, according to the sixteenth-­century astrologer Godfridus, was “the cause of lusty love and lechery.”180 She herself “inspired into the minds of men, libidinous desires, and lustful appetites.”181 She dominated the springtime renewal of life and erotic energy, but, as we have seen, possessed the dual aspect of heavenly love and vulgar temporal pleasure that could harm her earthly children.182 Mythographer Vincenzo Cartari (b. 1531) remarks of the goddess who personified the planetary influences that the chariot of Venus is drawn by two white Swans . . . [for] that those kind of birds are mild, innocent, and harmlesse and therefore given unto Venus: or that their harmonious & pleasant notes, which they sing a little before the approach of death, are compared to the amorous & delightful discourses and conferences of lovers, which commonly afterward prove & turn into sorrow, misery, or death.183

For Ingpen, her music was “lascivious, luxurious, effeminate, voluptuous . . . queint and delicious,” the very epitome of amorous delight, synesthetic sensuality, and the dangers of feminine excess.184 Like music itself, Venus could be a positive, creative influence or lead to misery through immoderate sensory pleasure. Not only was Venus accounted a musician, but musical skill was routinely granted those brought into the world under her planetary influence. Natural philosopher John Maplet (d. 1591) explains that “those that be borne under Venus are amiable, . . . greate laughers, very wanton, & such as do greatly delight in Musike; they have also a very perfect smell and taste, and their voice is very sweete or delectable.”185 John Farmer builds on this idea, especially for those who delighted in the genre Morley calls “lovers musicke.”186 Farmer tells the reader of his First Set of English Madrigals that

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I could advise the studious in Musicke so imploy themselves, that they might seeme to be rightly borne under the sweete aspect of Venus, which, as the Astronomers witnesse, is the Dominatrix in Musitians nativities: it is the only grace in a Musitian to follow this course, so to fitte both note and number as if like Twinnes of one mother.187

Nativity notwithstanding, Farmer’s intellectually polymathic contemporary Anthony Gibson (fl. 1599) considers Venus the patroness of all musicians.188 Such accounts are probably deliberately lacking in details about repertory for those born under or otherwise beholden to Venus, about how to attract the planet’s influence, or even about how to best fit together note and number to seem her native child. Maplet explains that Venus is “a faeminin planet, very placable and pleausant.”189 Readers of Castiglione’s Courtyer knew that one way to please earthly ladies was with music because their “tender and soft breastes are soone perced with melody and fylled with sweetnesse.”190 Especially through the virtue of sympathy, in which like attracts like, the easily placable musical goddess-­planet would therefore surely respond to sweet melody from those who sought her influence. We have seen that the note B-­flat was associated with the (feminine) erotic. From the Middle Ages on, founded on Boethius’s assignment of notes to each of the seven planets, it was tied to Venus.191 Other than incorporating this single note, how might men and women have musically attracted the influence of the planet that not only promised the delights of love but was “one of Natures good Nurses, and prevents disease”?192 If Venus guided the pleasures of taste and touch, surely instrumental music would work for those who knew the right rituals. And if Venus was soft, cool, and feminine, surely gentle, effeminate music played on instruments that required close physical proximity to hear as well as to play would be hers. Ken McLeod connects the goddess Venus, through the name of the island of Cytharea on which she arrived by scallop shell after aquatic birth, to the early modern cittern and, by extension, the shell-­shaped lute. Albert Pomme de Mirmonde considers the lute her primary instrument in Continental imagery. Robin Headlam Wells furthers Venereal influence to the orpharion with its scallop-­shell shape. At least one extant Elizabethan exemplar, by John Rose from 1580 (fig. 3.12), includes a lifelike, fully dimensional carving of the shell on its back.193 The instrument is also decorated with a previously unrecognized plethora of signifiers (or attractors) of Venereal power such as pearls and sparkling gems, pearwood, brass, floral shapes; perhaps content from the alchemical treatise from which parchment was used to join the lute’s seven ribs is also significant.194

Figure 3.12 Orpharion by John Rose (London, 1580), Helmingham Hall, Suffolk. Color plate by William Gibb from A. J. Hipkins, Musical Instruments, Historic, Rare and Unique (Edinburgh: A. and C. Black, 1888), plate 9. Courtesy of Northwestern University Libraries, Evanston, Illinois.

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Lute, cittern, and orpharion are soft, intimate instruments for the performer to touch, and they also enable him or her to sing specific words at the same time. The conventional brass strings of the latter two might further attract Venus for those who knew relevant rituals, as, according to Maplet, “among metals she [the planet Venus] requireth a right in copper & brasse.”195 The quiet “indoor” recreational instrument most closely associated with the sense of taste would be the recorder, with its curved fipple tongued between closed lips, still often made of the pear(wood) once associated with Venereal influence.196 Mirimonde demonstrates the instrument’s long-­standing Continental association with her. Amanda Eubanks Winkler shows use of the instrument in seventeenth-­century English stage representations of the seductive goddess.197 As with music of the spheres and a wide range of magic users and spirit beings, there was a solid English tradition of musical representations of the goddess Venus in Elizabethan and Stuart drama. Between the accession of Charles II and the early eighteenth century, as serious astrological practice waned in England, Venus became an especially important allegorical character in court and theatrical music drama. For the Stuart dynasty, Venus, assigned a range of delightful music from simply tuneful to lushly chromatic, embodied the same duality as her planet: the personification of true (political) concord or the seductive dangers of excessive pleasure, sometimes overlapped as a warning to listeners.198 Like Venus and like the other mathematical arts, astrology had its seductive, morally questionable allure. It attracted some shady practitioners and downright quacks. Like Venus and music, its negative aspects were considered overly sensuous and unmanly. John Chamber’s 1601 Treatise against Judicial Astrologie compares the art of “witlesse starre-­staring . . . which hath no ground but blind chance, and the whirling of fortune” to several others of equally ancient lineage, inducing music. Proper modern astrologers, Chambers tells us, should “seeme to imitate musitians” by retaining from ancient practice only the aspect of their art that is “more plaine and manly” than extravagant, imprecise, and “effeminate.”199 In an inversion of the lush image of Venus supervising the birth of Farmer’s musical colleagues from her shining celestial sphere, commonplace collector Thomas Gainesford likens the vulgar earthly whore to the superficial attractions of popular astrology. “A whore is of the nature of Astrology,” he begins, “an art of all men embraced and practiced; so a whore is railed and reviled of every body for her filthy conditions, and yet embraced for her wanton allurements, and pleasing delight.”200 William Baldwin’s (d. in or before 1563) fantastical mid-­sixteenth-­century satire Beware the Cat inverts the means of access to the secret harmonies

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of the cosmos. Here, it comes not from the eternal realm of godliness but of beasts and dead things. Instead of gazing upward with the most pristine human sense (vision) and reading signs from “the superior globe,” the gullible divine, Geoffrey Steamer, uses the lowest sense of taste to hear the order of the spheres and the earthly elements beneath them. Inspired by rituals of the anthropomorphic cats with whom he can converse, he ingests a concoction of body parts from one of the felines, a fox, a hare, a hedgehog, and a kite, plus a “cat toord” and separate lozenges made of the creatures’ ears. These, he tells listeners to his tale within Baldwin’s tale, enabled him to hear a cacophonous blend of natural and mechanical sounds from the sublunary world plus, with remarkable clarity, the “Hermony of the mooving of the Spheres.” Notably absent from Master Steamer’s acoustic experience is audible human music and with it any precise description of sound to better enable the reader’s understanding. The superstitious rituals that color the entire narrative are as far as possible from glorification of God or his works, those true necessities for modest practitioners of the occult arts or sciences from before Baldwin’s time through the demise of scientific astrology.201

“ Divine Consent ” : Holy Matrimony as Harmony Early modern English writers refer again and again to the origin in God of all things harmonious and to the necessity of Christian faith and humility to appropriate practice of all mathematics. Inquiry into cosmic secrets invariably approached the study of divinity, and as we have seen, the quadrivium traditionally served as the final gateway to it. “What can be more plaine, and manifest when we behold the heavens, and co[n]template the celestiall bodyes, then that there is some kinde of godhead whereby they are governed?” asks the English version of a wide-­ranging Italian work.202 Native alchemist Thomas Vaughan (ca. 1586–1658) concurs. Like Moxon and many others, he reminds readers that the incarnation of Christ was read in the stars by ancient magi and that the proper study of occult phenomena is compatible with his worship.203 Where Donne’s Christian God, father and son, spirit and flesh, divine and human, was at once a literal God and a God of metaphor, he was also “a God of harmony, and consent,” who, as in Fludd’s evocative image, maintained a tunable world.204 Music was not only an ancient way to praise the Creator but, through reflection between mind and body, a way to understand all varieties of divine concord. “Musicke is an Arte compounded of

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Number, Harmonie, and Melodie,” begins Leonard Wright’s commonplaces “Of Musicke,” “highly esteemed, and richly rewarded in all ages: A singuler blessing of God, sent down from heaven.”205 This singular blessing could be detected by the intellect wherever there was harmony, melody, or proportionality. Physician Sir Thomas Browne (1605–1682) reminds readers that music unheard still strikes the understanding. Conversely, even the most vulgar performed music expresses, at some level, those harmonies inaudible to living ears. “It is my temper,” he begins, and I like it the better, to affect all harmony, and since there is musick even in the beauty, and the silent notes which Cupid strikes, farre sweeter then the vocall sound of an instrument. For there is a musicke, where-­ever there is a harmony, order, or proportion, and thus farre we may maintaine the musicke of the spheres, for those well ordered motions, and regular paces, though they give no sound to the eare, yet to the understanding they strike a note most full of harmony. Whatsoever is harmonically composed, delights in harmony; which makes me distrust the simmetry of those heads which declaime against our Church musicke. For my selfe, not onely for my Catholike obedience, but my particular genius, I am obliged to mainteine it, for even that vulgar and Taverne Musicke which makes one man merry, another mad, strikes in me a deepe fit of devotion, and a profound contemplation of my Maker; there is something in it of Divinity more then the eare discovers. It is an Hieroglyphicall and shadowed lesson of the whole world, and Creatures of God, such a melody to the eare, as the whole world, well understood, would afford the understanding. In briefe, it is a sensible fit of that Harmony, which intellectually sounds in the eares of God, it unties the ligaments of my frame, takes me to pieces, dilates me out of my selfe, and by degrees, me thinkes, resolves me into Heaven.206

So powerful was the linkage between all forms of harmony that even secular musicians could reclaim respectability for their suspiciously sensual art through its connection to divine numeric proportion. Similarly, Timotheus explains to the Knight in the introductory dialogue to Thomas Robinson’s 1603 self-­tutor for the mixed consort of lute, pandora, orpharion, and viol that I must graunt you this, that it is behovefull a Musition that would bee excellent, to be seene in all or the most part of the seaven liberall Arts. . . . First hee

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must be a divine, that is he must be divinelie given, he must above all things serve God, that God may blesse him, in all his good indevours; hee must read the scriptures, for it is the fountaine of all knowledge, & it teacheth the divine harmonie of the soule of man: for Musicke is none other then a perfect harmonie, whose divinitie is seene in the perfectnesse of his proportions, as, his unison sheweth the unitie, from whence all other, (concords, discords, consonancies, or others whatsoever) springeth, next his unitie, his third: (which is the perfect concord that is in all Musicke) representeth the perffect, and most holie Trinitie; his fift, (the most perfect consonance in all Musicke, for that it is the verie essence of all concords) representeth the perfection of that most perfect number of five, which is made the perfect atonement betweene God, and man; his eight, (which as it is, but his unison) representeth his alpha and omega: & as what is above eight, is but a repetition, as from his unison, as it were a new beginning; so it sheweth our returne from whence we came, as it were, in notes of Musicke. . . . But of necessitie, a Musition must be a perfect Arethmatition, for that Musicke consisteth altogether of true number, and proportion, and thus, at this so cheefe, and necessarie science of Arithmaticke, I houlde it best to stay the processe of Musicke, as touching the necessitie of other than these, which I have mentioned to bee fit in a good Musition.207

The musician who understands the mathematical basis of his or her art instinctively recognizes its origin in theology. Music reveals the beautiful and living harmony whereof God is composed and through which He maintains universal order. Of all sacred duties in post-­Reformation England, none was more closely connected to harmony or divinity than marriage. There was truly music “in the beauty, and the silent notes which Cupid strikes.”208 Largely due to the Christianized Platonic ideas that informed so much early modern thought, love stood at the center of the era’s cosmos, and with it, divinely given attraction between the sexes.209 Commentators from all shades of the Christian confessional spectrum praised wedlock and recognized the unbreakable sacred bond between man and wife as both signifier and promise of the heavenly union between God and his best-­beloved creature.210 In no human construct or endeavor did the era’s ideas of harmony and concord between opposites come together more completely than in marriage, with its unity of the eternal and temporal, the mystical and sensual, and the ancient principles of maleness and femaleness. Marriage was the earthly epitome of what Browne recognizes to “give no sound to the eare, yet to the understanding . . . strike[s]

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a note most full of harmony.”211 And that harmony functioned analogously to audible music, which helped clarify it to the mind. Smith simply orates in his “Preparative to Mariage” that “Love is the Marriage vertue, which sings Musicke to their whole life.”212 In a sermon preached at court the Tuesday after the 1613 wedding of James I’s only daughter, Bishop of London John King (d. 1621) states that “by taking a bone from the man . . . to strengthen the woman, & by putting flesh in steede thereof to mollifie the man, he made a sweete complexion and temper bewixt them, like harmony in musicke, for their amiable cohabitation.”213 Church of England clergyman Daniel Rogers (1573–1652) similarly explains this concord of opposites in a marriage manual from 1642: Thus [in marriage] doth God by his wisedom so order contraries, that being brought by his own skillfull hand to a due temperature, they might cause a most pleasing harmony: so that oftimes a nimble wit joyned with a more slow, a phlegmatique temper with a sanguine, a melancholique with a merry, a cholerique with a mild and patient temper, might behold the workmanship of God herein.214

Fifteen Real Comforts of Matrimony, written some forty years later by an unnamed “Person of Quality of the Female Sex,” explains with equal understanding of successful marriage and the rudiments of musical style that “differences between Husband and Wife, like discords in Musik, render the harmony of their society more sweet and delectable.”215 By her era, the companionate and sexually bonded marriage, with its greater emphasis on genuine affection and more equality between spouses, had become a prominent trend after its century-­plus ascendency.216 Like the composed music Campion relates to cosmic elements, all marriages united discrete quantities into a single entity whose component parts paradoxically remained evident. Marriage also consisted of the same combination of coequality, fidelity, agreement, and suppression of vain delight that Batman locates in the musical symbol of Concordia. Rogers declares of this divine consent, Oh thou sweet amiablenesse and concord, what may not be said of thee? Thou art the offspring of God, the fruite of Redemption, the breath of the spirit: Thou art the compound of contraries, the harmony of discords, the order of Creation, the soule of the world. . . . Oh thou divine consent, the sweet temperature of bodily complexions, the blessed union of soule and

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body, the lawe of government to Commonwealths and societies, the band of perfection in the Church, the reconcilement of God with man, the recollection and considering of all things in one, both in heaven and earth, the life of the family, the daughter of love, sister of peace, and mother of blessing, canst thou then, who art the life of all things, chuse but be the honour of marriage?217

Music was a powerful metaphor for marriage because of the art’s position between sensation and intellect, its linguistic and acoustic association with the erotic, and its use in wedding ceremonies. Perhaps there was a bit of sympathetic magic in this ancient custom. “I come to mariages,” says the author of The Praise of Musicke in his assessment of “The Particuler Use of Musicke in Civill Matters,” wherein our ancectors . . . did fondly, & with a kind of doting maintaine many rites & ceremonies, some whereof were either shadowes or abodements of a pleasant life to come . . . to be a preparative of sweete & delightfull dayes between the married persons, the joyning of Mercury and Venus together. . . . So in the time of solemnizing the same they had choise & set songs appointed for the purpose.218

Beyond reflecting the mystical union between the Creator and the created world, marriage was also a concord between the individual and God’s plan that she or he merge with an earthly spouse before knowing the bliss of Heaven. Through the institution’s status as the socially acceptable prelude to divinely commanded fruition and multiplication, holy matrimony became a shadowy imitation of God’s creative act. Marriage was thus perhaps the ultimate human metaphor spanning physical and metaphysical unities. It was made more so by the linguistic substitution of musical terms for graphic sexual ones and in the context of ceremonial jointure celebrated with sounding music. The engraver of William Byrd, John Bull, and Orlando Gibbons’ landmark Parthenia: or, the Maydenhead of the first musicke that ever was printed for the Virginalls states in his dedication, “TO THE HIGH & MIGHTY and magnificent Prince Frederick Elector Palatine of the Reine: and his betrothed Lady, Elizabeth the only daughter of my Lord the king [ James I],” that The virgin PARTHENIA (whilst yet I may) I offer up to your virgin Highnesses. To you (Gracious Lady) even from the byrth she was entended and

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nowe I trust shalbe more wellcome having learnd to tune and twine togeithr these next neighbor letters E and F the vowell that makes so sweet a Consona[n]t. Her notes so linkt and wedded togeither seeme lively Hierogliphicks of the harmony of mariage, the high and holy State whereinto you shortly must be incorporat. This smale work (yet first in this kind) was only ment for this lesser world: howbeit under your shadowes (in yor sunneshine I should say rather; yt is, yor sweete and glorious Consorte) it may sound and rellish in the eares of the greater. For Musick . . . is alike knowne to all the sundry nations of ye world. And what wonder sinc[e] Harmony is the Soule thereof multiplicitously varied of fowre bare notes as ye Body is of the fowre Elements. These lessons were composed by three famous Masters in the faculties, whereof one had ye honor to be yor teacher most Illustrious lady. . . . If, to theire greatr grace, yor Grace will vouchsafe to lend yor white hands they will arrive w[i]th more pleasure at ye princely eares of yor GREAT FREDERIKE. Our lord Jesus hath honored mariage wrh his deere presence and first miracle, extraordinarily done at ye instance of his mayden mother, aeternally blesse you maydes and maryed. Yor Highnesses most humbly William Hole219

Hole’s virgin imprint and its notation for expressing textless music on a softly sounding chamber instrument unites with his wish for the private happiness of the bridal couple. Together, his engraved notes, the adjacent letters of the couple’s initials, their souls and bodies, and the ultimate harmony recalled in Christ, sweetly tune and twine together in a consonance that stretches from the given compositions through the elements of the human body and the nations of the world to the highest Lord of All. The dedication is even more powerful and evocative of marital harmony to come by its reference to the bride’s hands playing the contents of the collection for the aural pleasure of her princely groom. It is addressed to the musically trained Princess Elizabeth Stuart, yet it is applicable to any wife who might play the book’s contents for her husband.220 The accounts of human reproduction that governed Western attitudes before the eighteenth century regarded the intimate bodily aspects of sexual delight as a mirror of metaphysical reality and cosmic order.221 As such, the most private, subjective, and physically pleasurable aspect of marriage loaned itself to the metaphorical language of music, the most sensual and arousing

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of arts that, when removed from its damaging frame of earthly delight, led toward eternity. “There is no Joy, no Sweetness, no Comfort, no Pleasure in the World like happy Marriage,” proclaims the anonymous Ladies Dictionarie, subtitled General Entertainment for the Fair-­Sex, of 1694, “where there is a Union and Harmony of S[o]uls, as well as Conjunction of Bodies.”222 For many English thinkers, the representation of intimate marital union in musical terms became a symbolic means through which the connection between music and sexuality was channeled into theology and metaphysics. Rogers explains in his instructional guide to Matrimoniall Honour that I now proceed to the second mayne and joint duty of the marryed which is conjugall Love: For the better handling wherof it will not be amisse first to premise somewhat, touching the nature of it. . . . The infinitely and onely wise God who both upholdeth by his providence, all his creatures in their kindes and substituting, and hath by one soule of harmony and consent, accorded each with other, for their mutuall ayde and support: much more hath his hand in the accorde of reasonable creatures, their fellowship and league together, as without which they could not well continue in their welfare & prosperity.223

Within this exquisite symbolic evocation of the supreme act of bodily pleasure and creativity, music has become pure, elevated as far beyond the corrupt and corrupting “vesture of decay” as the conjoined souls of the married couple. Here, finally, is music at its most noble, acceptable even to its greatest detractors: reduced to a simple, silent harmony that extends beyond mere sonority through the intellect to bind the Creator to all echoes of order throughout his created universe. Knowing members of early audiences of The Merchant of Venice would have recognized that, if their love was real, newly married Jessica and Lorenzo would need no musician’s touch to help them sing true music their whole life.

CHAPTER four

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind

The original frontispiece to John Birchensha’s 1663–1664 English translation of book 20 of Johann Heinrich Alsted’s monumental 1630 Encyclopoedia (fig. 4.1) reminds readers that the ontologically mysterious aspects of musical harmony also led to auditory delight. John Chantry’s engraving and Birchensha’s explanatory poem combine to reiterate what the Pythagorean and especially Boethian traditions had taught for centuries: the quantitative underpinnings that granted music the capacity to maintain order and concord from the turning spheres of heaven through sublunary elements and into the human soul and body were also manifest in music sung and played. The emblematic frontispiece, with its motto, picture, and short title as epigram, presents a top-­down account of music’s divine power as received by human beings. This not only reinforces the English designation of the work as Templum Musicum . . . a Compendium of the Rudiments both of the Mathematical and Practical Part of Musick. It also emphasizes the Pythagorean-­Platonic notion that the most enduring musical pleasure was intellectual apprehension of numerical proportions that could elevate the mind beyond the sensible world.1 Chantry and Birchensha are unequivocal that sounding music retains and transmits these qualities to the minds and bodies of attentive listeners: To Musicks sacred Temple, Mercurie And Orpheiis dedicate their Harmonie From thence proceeding. Whose faire Handmaids are Mysterious Numbers: which, if you compare, The Rat’on of Proport’ons, you will find 155

Figure 4.1 John Birchensha, Templum Musicum (London: Will[iam] Godbid, 1664), RB 111462, frontispiece. The Huntington Library, San Marino, California.

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These please the Eare, and Satisfie the mind. For nothing, more, the Soule and sense contents, Then Sounds express’d by voice and Instruments.2

In this multimedia presentation, music begins in a place designated ancient and sacred and ends in decorous modern single-­sex performance. Chantry’s image emphasizes that the restorative pleasure and contentment inherent in music is equally accessible to persons male and female, young and old, transmitted from allegorical guardians personified both masculine and feminine. Uppermost in the picture and reflected in the opening of the poem is Mercury—celestial patron of magic, hearing, and ordered music for intellectual contemplation—and Orpheus—semidivine embodiment of the power of music over terrestrial and subterranean beings—flank with lyres that resemble Hibernian harps the Roman-­style temple whose sacred status is reinforced by an anachronistic cross. Immediately under this tableau stand three handmaids to Music costumed not in classical style as are the Temple guardians but as fashionable Restoration ladies. They are Arithmetica, Harmonia, and Geometria, keepers of the art’s numerical secrets. Each holds a placard whose Arabic numerals reveal the ratios underlying concordant proportions: 2–3–­4 for arithmetic proportion, 3–4–­6 for harmonic proportion, and 2–4–­8 for geometric proportion. These are identical to the exemplars given in book 3, section 5, of Aristides Quintilianus’s third- or fourth-­century treatise De Musica.3 Beneath Chantry’s mathematical trio, two men and a boy play instruments as do the classical deities, presumably improvising idiomatically appropriate parts for their cornett, violin, and bass viol. In a separate frame beside them, three singing women hold specialty notation as do the mathematical handmaids. Readers and viewers are hereby reminded that the abstract perfection of music from the cerebral realms of narrative fable and mathematical science can—and does—reach through audible music into “the Soule and sense” of human hearers. Just as music that could not be heard by living ears was made comprehensible by that which could, the affective power of audible music was explained by quantitative correlations and their effects on physical objects. Whatever the origin of music’s powers, inherited commonplaces and the discourses assembled from them by English thinkers were most concerned with music’s effects on listeners.4 These may have arisen from the nature of music as universal harmony made up of abstract number. Yet they enabled the sounding sort to modify the emotions, behaviors, and mental and spiritual states of listeners and performers. Music was therefore a divine gift re-

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ciprocally suited to worship and perhaps a means to attract or reveal cosmic secrets. It also directly stimulated the body and served as an agent of moral destruction. The all-­important definition with which Ling begins the place “Of Musicke” in his much-­reprinted Politeuphuia foregrounds the opposition between these capacities: Defi[nition]. Musicke is an insearchable and excellent Art, in which, by the true concordance of soundes, a sound of harmonie is made, which rejoyceth the spirits, & unloadeth griefe from the hart, and consisteth in time and number. The most commendable end of musick, is the praise of GOD. . . . The brutish part of the soule, depending of the feeding beast without reason, is that which is pleased, and ordered by soundes and musicke.5

Allott’s similar collection of “choicest Sentences & Similitudes” likewise begins its place “Of Musique & Dauncing” with Aristotle would have youth to exercise them selves in Musique, and to be imployed in those harmonies which stirre up to commendable operations and morall vertues, tempering desires, greediness, and sorrowes, for so much as numbers and melodies consist in certaine proportions and concords of the voice; it is the excellent gift of God, and as Art of numbers & measures serveth to Divinity, so doth the Art of Musique.6

These two printed collations, from which individuals could generate further ideas, emphasize at the start of their music sections that music is a commendable art of harmony, number, concord, and proportion. Ling emphasizes its mystery, Allott its antiquity. Admirable as these features may be, they do more than simply define the silent musics that underlie all that is good and ordered. For Ling, Allott, and their reader-­adapters as well as for Birchensha’s later audience, it is the influence of audible music on “Soule and sense,” or mind and body—the moral and physiological effects of instrumental and vocal sound—that truly define the art. Ling and Allott emphasize from the outset that the ordered sounds of music can inspire virtue, balance body and soul, and praise and reflect the Creator. Music was certainly an art of number whose effects were grounded in imperceptible ratios and proportions from eternal realms. But its human importance—and to many the true essence of its power—lay in the ability of audible forms to alter participants’ mental and sometimes physical states. To praise music was largely to commend its beneficial effects on people. To practice was to enable them. Richard Edwards’s

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four-­stanza strophic song “In commendation of Musick,” circulated independently as a literary text and in instrumental arrangements for keyboard and for lute, explains, in its first printed version from 1576, that Where gripyng griefes the hart would wound & dolefull dompes the [mind] oppresse There Musick with her silver sou[n]d is wont with spede to give redresse Of troubled minde for every sore, swete Musick hath a salve therefore. In joye it maks our mirthe abound, in grief it chers our heavie sprights The carefull head release hath found, by Musicks pleasant swete delights Our sences, what should I saie more, are subject unto Musicks lore. The GODS by musick hath their praie, the soule therin doeth joye, For as the Romaine Poets saie, in seas whom Pirats would destroye, A dolphin saved from Death moste sharpe, Arion plaiyng on his harpe. A heavenly gift, that turnes the minde, like as the sterne doth rule the ship, Musick whom the Gods assigned, to comfort man, whom cares woulde nip Sith thou both Ma[n] & beast doest move, what wiseman then will thee reprove.7

Edwards praises music’s powers in twelve lines divided into four stanzas of three. Those attuned to “mysterious numbers” might recognize quantitative correspondence to the zodiacal signs, months of the year, or semitones in an octave; the ternary numbers of divinity, the faculties of the body, or appellations of the earth (animal, vegetable, and mineral); or those all-­important sets of four in elements, seasons, humors, perfection of the soul, and fundamental parts of musical harmony.8 The poet-­composer also reiterates the commonplace of music as a heavenly gift through which to praise the divine and receive comfort. Performance of this song by voice(s) or instrument(s) would have enabled it to serve as the kind of therapy the words describe for those invested in self-­care during an era in which many kinds of practitioners were responsible for human well-­being. The same properties of music that explained the secrets of the cosmos illuminated the inner complexities of the human being on whom they had profound effect. The human being was believed to reflect the entirety of creation and to possess mortal and immortal components common respectively with animals and spirit beings. Mysterious numbers, divine order, the celestial spheres, and other secret aspects of the

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universe were manifest in each person as well as the performed music that had its own histories and cultural precedents. Consequently, to consider the human experience of music and its causal agency was to recognize what Ling distills in one pithy sentence: “Musick is the world of sciences; for it imbraceth all discipline[s], without which it cannot be perfit.”9 Many recognized that this perfection unified its heard and unheard forms.

Explaining Musical Experience The most eloquent multimedia reassembly of commonplaces about the powers of music over humans and other earthly entities belongs to act 5, scene 1 of Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, probably first performed around the time Allott and Ling compiled their collections. The passage reiterates exemplary arguments first popularized for English-­language readers through Thomas Hoby’s translation of Castiglione’s Book of the Courtier. In Shakespeare’s play, immediately after Lorenzo has reminded Jessica and the theatrical audience that human ears cannot hear the music of the spheres, the two characters turn their attention to the kind that all of them can, and do, hear. Like Birchensha and Chantry, Shakespeare presents music in a trajectory from eternal harmony beyond human apprehension to a pleasing art of sound, and from there through sensing body to responsive soul. In contrast to the Restoration frontispiece, the scene for the Elizabethan stage pivots around audible music successively presented as a reminder of abstract harmony denied to living senses; as cultural practice; and as an affective force first connecting rational and irrational beings and finally members of one social collective. From unheard to heard, music is thus a compelling communal experience. Shakespeare identifies it not only as everlasting concord and a human pleasure but also as capable of affecting the “beast without reason.”10 Those who remain unresponsive to the art, he tells us, are defective and dangerous. In dialogue with Lorenzo, a pensive Jessica draws attention to the effect music tends to have on her, namely, to make her sad through its sweetness. In response, he enters into what Castiglione’s Count Lewis of Canossa (Ludovico di Canossa) had earlier called “a large sea of the praise of Musicke.” However, Lorenzo’s emphasis is not so much on “how it hath bene ye opinio[n] of most wise Philosaphers yt the world is made of musick & the heave[n]s in their moving make a melody,” since he had previously spoken of this.11 Instead, he outlines the art’s effects on living things after Jessica has cued the stage

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musicians to accompany his speech and predisposed the audience to listening attentively. Lorenzo twice references the spirits that served as messengers between sense receptors and interior cogitation. Listeners are therefore reminded near the beginning and end of the exchange that musical affect is an active process involving overlapping organic systems: Jessi[ca]. I am never merry when I heare sweet musique. Play musicke. Lor[enzo]. The reason is, your spirits are attentive: For doe but note a wilde and wanton heard Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, Fetching mad bounds, bellowing and neighing loud, Which is the hot condition of their bloud, If they but heare perchance a trumpet sound Or any ayre of musicke touch their eares, You shall perceive them make a mutuall stand, Their savage eyes turn’d to a modest gaze, By the sweet Power of musicke; therefore the Poet Did faine that Orpheus drew trees, stones, and floods. Since naught so stockish, hard, and full of rage, But musicke for time doth change his nature, The man that hath no musicke in himselfe, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoyles, The motions of his spirit are dull as night, And his affections darke as Erebus, Let no such man be trusted: marke the musicke.12

With this passage, Shakespeare approaches one of the most enduring and sometimes vexing considerations about music: the experience and sustained effects of engaging with it. Music has long been recognized as an agent of psychophysical change. It has been deemed capable of altering listeners’ mental and physical states if not their relation to their environment. The art has especially been tied to personal and collective memory, to provoking emotion, to drawing people together, and to helping create social space and recognition or recall of place. What has varied most is the attributed causes of music’s transformative capacities and the means by which they are identified. These continue to be debated as well as measured under modern laboratory

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conditions. Some of music’s effects may be founded in the physical nature of sound and some in human perceptual and cognitive processes, and some are socially and culturally conditioned. Some endure as fables when no longer accepted literally. Especially when musical taste advertises social belonging, affective response might be based on expectation.13 A generation after The Merchant of Venice premiered, for instance, the idea that “whom God loves not, that man loves not Musicke” had become a proverb, and few would want to admit to being despised by the deity.14 Defining musical experience was especially complicated in an era for which the literal and metaphorical and the physical and metaphysical were drawn together through correspondence. It was even more so because musical qualities were assigned to the divinity who had created the world in harmony and concord and who had bestowed the art as a gift that could, in turn, be used to venerate him. Through the voice of a sympathetic character, Shakespeare reiterates Castiglione’s Count’s summation that music “doth not only make swete the mindes of me[n], but also many times wilde beastes tame: and whoso savoreth it not, a manne may assuredly thinke him not to be wel in his wittes.”15 Like the older Italian and his English translator, Shakespeare borrows terminology from the domain of taste to emphasize the immediate pleasure and ingestive qualities of hearing. Beginning with a command to Jessica (and through her the audience) to let the music into their ears, Lorenzo’s previous lines had demonstrated that unheard harmonies were conceptually enabled by their performable equivalents. The continuation of his dialogue extends to the commonplace that such inaudible aspects of universal concord explain the affective powers of sounding music as it enters the ears and penetrates to heart and soul. The body may have been the “vesture of decay” with feeble perceptual faculties. However, the sense of hearing—beginning with the living, embodied ear—mediated between the abstract origins of music and the soul that perhaps remembers them. To the accompaniment of music in Shakespeare’s play, Lorenzo offers guidance for what the audience should feel as they attend to his words and then “marke the musicke” that continues. The character leads the audience through the playwright’s elegant reiteration of familiar musical topoi from natural history, mythology, medicine, poetics, conduct of life, moral philosophy, and what later eras might refer to as psychoacoustics: truly a “world of sciences” embraced to explain the mood-­moderating effects of music.16 In fact, modern psychologist Stephen McAdams notes that “what today calls itself the psychology of music” would do well to draw from a wider range of disciplines than it does,

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“including acoustics, psychology, brain sciences, artificial intelligence and music theory.”17 The early modern commonplaces explaining what later became psychology of music certainly drew on precursors to these disciplines plus a wider range of arts and sciences. To Shakespeare’s contemporaries and the generations either side, consideration of musical sensation, affect, and meaning were inseparable from inquiries into the natures of sound, the listening process, and the social experience of music. These, in turn, relied on a rich and sometimes contradictory intellectual heritage about the powers of music founded not only in quantitative disciplines but also diverse literary traditions. The storehouse of commonplaces, guides for would-­be writers such as Josua Poole’s Helpe to English Poesie, conduct manuals, music treatises, and even plays such as The Merchant of Venice provided memorable references to the effects of music on the human organism and to the origins of those effects in extrinsic factors such as hidden proportionality, cosmic order, or infection between performers and listeners. By Shakespeare’s day, with its debates over appropriate uses of music according to gender, space, social status, and religious affiliation, emphasis had largely shifted from speculative underpinnings to effects of the art as heard. However, with the exception of such specialized treatises as Butler’s Principles of Musik, there was little guidance about how to choose repertory to induce specific response. Discussion of the capacity to be moved by “concord of sweet sound” was fundamentally separate from considerations of musical style or the art’s suitability for specific contexts.18 “There is a kind of Musicke that doth asswage and appease the affections, and a kind that doth kindle and provoke the passions,” pronounces Meres’s Wits Commonwealth with no indication as to what intrinsic features might distinguish the two.19 The range of discourse that circulated among sixteenth- and seventeenth-­ century English thinkers concerning musical experience was a complicated web that incorporated the teachings of, among others, Plato, Aristotle, Aristoxenus, Galen, the apocryphal Book of Ecclesiasticus, Boethius, and later medieval and sixteenth-­century Continental critics who had assimilated some of their ideas.20 In essence, the early modern era had inherited objective and subjective approaches to how music worked on mood, manner, and substance. The former positioned music within the sublime realm of mathematical speculation, from which it transmitted universal order or chaos. This was music unheard, though perhaps reflected into vocal and instrumental forms. The subjective approach explained the capacities of music through its evident effects in the physical world. It was based on corporeal experience, including

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direct observation and received accounts from trusted sources. It acknowledged hearing as the sense most closely allied with action and emotion and music as (resembling) the physical substance of the soul and vital spirits.21 Beginning in the late sixteenth century, these fundamentally separate approaches were gradually reconciled. Shakespeare plays with the tension between references to the sublime origin and effects of music and the sound that accompanies his scene as well as that between audience identification with Jessica’s visceral response to music and Lorenzo’s clinical explanation of its cause. Mathematical and mystical discussions of silent proportion, perfection, or the divine origins of music traditionally remained distinct from aesthetic or psychological considerations of sound. However, Pythagoreanism had from its beginnings considered the vibration of strings and the effects of pleasing intervals on listeners. And classical and biblical tales told of soul-­ stirring performers such as Orpheus and David. By the mid-­Elizabethan era— coincident with rising popularity of the public praise and dispraise of music— the most widely circulating discourses on the art recognized its unparalleled capacities for affect as an extension of numerical proportion and hidden correspondence. Leonard Wright’s commonplaces about music from 1589, for example, move immediately from the numeric definition and divine origin to pleasures of the senses, the influence of music over earthly things, and finally back to the silent mathematics to reinforce the underlying mechanism of the art’s power. After his opening definition and emphasis on music’s divine purpose “as a pleasant companion to comfort our sorrowes, and abbreviate our weariness on earth,” he explains that Daintie meats are delicate to the taste; Beautiful colours pleasant to the eyes: And sweete perfumes delightfull to the nose. But the harmonial consent of Musicke, most precious to the eares. It ravisheth the sences: reviveth the spirites: sharpeneth the witt: inflameth the heart: encourageth the valiant: terrifieth the dastard: relieveth the distraughted: expulseth Melancholike dumps: recreateth wearied mindes: and stirreth up an aptnesse unto vertue and godlinesse. King Saul by Musick was delivered from grievous tor‑ me[n]ts: The Prophets by Musicke was [sic] moved to prophisie: Orpheus and Amphion by Musicke were saide to move stones, rockes and trees: Wilde beastes by Musicke have beene tamed: Birdes allured: fishes delighted, and serpents charmed. The fiercenes of the Wolfe, is mitigated by the sound of the cornet: the Elephant delighted with the Organe: the Bee with the noyse of brasse: the Crane with the trumpet: and the Dolphin with the harpe. And such humanie creatures, as can finde no pleasure nor delight in the

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sweete harmoniall consent of concordes and proportions which speake them so faire: must needes be monsters in Nature. . . . A sort of dolefull melody full of solome mourning sweetnesse: not onely pearceth the minde: maketh tender the hart: and allureth the outward sences: but also by the artificiall harmony of numbers and proportions, it delighteth even reason it selfe. . . . And the better to moove and stirre up mans drowsie affections to devotion and godlinesse: that the doctrine of salvation, night more easily pearce the hearts and minds of the hearers.22

Wright hereby positions music as an object of aural delight whose proportionality and defining concord connect diverse beings and things. Music is likened to other sensual pleasures but with unparalleled capacity for bodily invasion and alteration of the balance between the thinking and doing parts. Its power over living creatures and elements of the sublunary world is especially pronounced in human beings; again, those who do not respond are monsters, and again, it is a medicinal salve for every sore as well as a vehicle through which individuals find godliness. Music’s underlying proportions speak to the analytical faculties, its sound to the senses and emotions. It is an agent of active, violent transformation, for it ravishes, sharpens, inflames, pierces, expels, stirs, and tenderizes. Yet music is also a source of pleasure and renewal, for it recreates, revives, allures, and delights. As with Shakespeare’s Jessica, the paradox of mournful sweetness is especially affective, from its proportionate underpinnings to its sensual allure and alteration of the somatic system. By the turn of the seventeenth century, more commentators emphasized the human response to music than its sublime origins or numerical proportions. Butler’s simple 1636 definition of the art, with its focus on psychological effects arising from performance, is typical of his era: “Musik is the Art of modulating Notes in voice or instrument, the which, having a great power over the affections of the mind, by its various moodes produceth in the hearers various effects.”23 Ultimately, the physical and concomitant ethical effects of music were founded on ancient epistemological systems that located music at the center of universal order. The same systems also placed sensation in the service of intellect and privileged thoughtful judgment about music. The highest apprehension of music therefore involved sublimation of sensual pleasure into interior cogitation. Wright’s commonplaces locate human response to music between the sounding object, mindful body, and underlying concord. The Pythagorean-­Platonic heritage promulgated the notion of direct correspon-

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dence between a given property of sound (such as string length or speed of vibration) and the related perceptual process (such as sense of pitch). This naive realism, as it is termed in philosophy, has been modified in Western thought by the gradual development of psychological methods for investigating the relations between independent physical information and facts of sensation.24 The Pythagorean-­Boethian conceptual apparatus for music, with its correspondences between the external physical, human organismic, and perceptual realms of the art served the purpose for the premodern era. Agrippa explains that the harmonic proportions of the heavens postulated by Pythagoras and Plato were received through sound transmitted between performer and hearer already present within the perfect “lesser world” of the human body with its precious soul and sense receptors. And Boethius continued to remind generations of readers that the sense of hearing not only enabled reception, identification, and judgment of musical sound but also emotive response.25 The interplay between experiential and analogical modes of knowledge certainly helped elucidate the multifaceted connections between music, emotion, intellect, and the enduring truths of mathematical science and divinity. The Praise of Musicke cites a range of fashionable prior authority to explain that Musicke . . . hath a certaine divine influence into the soules of men, whereby our cogitations and thoughts . . . are brought into a celestiall acknowledging of their natures. For as the Platonicks & Pythagoria[n]s think al soules of me[n], are at the recordatio[n] of that celestial Musicke, whereof they were partakers in heaven, before they entred into their bodies so wo[n]derfuly delighted, that no ma[n] ca[n] be found so harde harted which is not exceedingly alured with the sweetnes therof. And therfore some of the antie[n]t Philosophers attribute this to an hidde[n] divine vertue, which they suppose naturally to be ingenerated in our minds, & for this cause some other of the[m] as Herophilus & Aristoxenus . . . thought that the soule was nothing else, but a Musical motio[n], caused of the nature & figure of the whole body, gathering thereof this necessary conclusion, that . . . it must needs be, that Musical co[n]cent being like that Harmonical motion which he [Cicero] calleth the soule, doth most wonderfullie allure, & as it were ravish our senses cogitatio[n]s.26

The author emphasizes the connection between response to sounding music, its celestial origin, and the constitution of the human organism. Music unifies

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elements of the self and connects them to external things it holds in smaller quantity. Audible harmony allures and ravishes cogitation out of sense because of its likeness to the soul. The best hope for living ears to participate in the pure, unceasing music of eternity is therefore through physically sounding music (musica instrumentalis), which sympathetically raises the harmony of body and soul (musica humana) to the heavenly heights of harmonic order (musica mundana).27 Since music could delight the soul by entering the body through the ear and reminding it of its celestial origin, it could redirect physical faculties toward spiritual ones. According to French physician André Du Laurens (1558–1609)—whose work on ophthalmology, melancholy, gerontology, and respiratory disorders was translated into English by physician Richard Surphlet (or Surflet, active 1600–1616)—human nobility “commeth not of the bodie, which consisteth of matter and is corruptible. . . . It is the soule alone whereby he is so renowned, being a forme altogether celestial and divine, not taking his originall from the effectuall working of any matter, as that of plants and beasts doth.”28 However, English lawyer and poet Sir John Davies (1569– 1626) explains with echoes of the ascetic pessimism often associated by his culture with the sensual analogues of spiritual things, that Doubtlesse in Man there is a nature found, Beside the Senses, and above them farre; Though most me[n] being in sensuall pleasures drownd, It seemes their Soules but in the Senses are. If we had nought but Sense, then only they Should have sound minde, which have their senses found; But Wisdeome growes, when senses do decay, And follie most in quickest sense is found.29

Music was thus capable of overwhelming listeners with pleasure, especially those who mistook sense for soul or enjoyed the wrong kind of music under inappropriate circumstances. Since each individual was a tiny embodiment of the greater universe, the complexities of human music, with its sympathetic response to perceptible music and to the unheard harmony of the cosmos, offered the widest range of explanatory apparatuses for medicine, theology, physical investigations of sound and vibration, inquiries into the mind, and connections between these—both beneficial and malign. The unheard music of the human body and soul brought other forms of

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harmony and order into mutual focus, further explicating aesthetic and emotive response to audible performance. Ornitoparchus explains that Humane Musick, is the Concordance of divers elements in one compound, by which the spirituall nature is joyned with the body, and the reasonable part is coupled in concord with the unreasonable. . . . What other power doth soder and glue that spirituall strength, which is indued with an intellect to a mortall and earthly frame, than that Musicke which every man that descends into himselfe finds in himselfe? For every like is preserved by his like, and by his dislike is disturbed. Hence is it, that we loath and abhorre discords, and are delighted when we heare harmonicall concords, because we know there is in ourselves the like concord.30

Music here becomes the substance that holds together the incongruous components of the human organism. Soul and sense are simultaneously contented by similitudes made audible, as Boethius had earlier emphasized on Platonic authority. Robinson observes in the introductory dialogue to his Schoole of Musicke, also with echoes of Boethius, that a musician must be expert in many arts, especially arithmetic, divinity, and medicine. All three were concerned with truth and with combinations of discrete elements, and the latter two, like the most ancient views of music, with morality and human wholeness.31 The wise interlocutor Timotheus explains to the Knight who has sought his advice that music is medicinal through its ability to restore concord to mind and body. It truly provides that universal salve of which Edwards had written: Now that a Musition should bee a phisition, I see no such necessitie, But that Musicke is Phisical, it is plainlie seene by those maladies it cureth. As it cureth melancholie; it much prevaileth against madness; If a man be in paines of the gout, or any wound, or of the head, it much mitigateth the furie thereof: and it is said, that Musicke hath a salve for everie sore.32

It is hardly coincidental that the physical ailments on this list are tied to mental states. The concord that is music both enabled and explained the unity between unreasonable body and reasonable soul by the latter’s ability to recognize in music what was also in the self. As we saw in the previous chapter, music served as a conceptual link between the visible and invisible, or perceptible and conceptual, aspects of the universe. This included the complete human organism and its connections to the entire cosmos. Before the eigh-

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teenth century, animate and inanimate entities could be classified together as by their similar response to Orphic music. There was no hard division between mundane and magical, or ordinary and enchanted, categories.33 Where human experience was considered to reflect cosmic truth and balance, music provided metaphors for the relationship between the conceptual and the physical, or the individual mind and the rest of the universe. Reference to the art was especially useful for translating between things of sense and things of mind, or sensorimotor and subjective experience. This is the cognitive-­ linguistic framework by which metaphor has long been defined. Yet audible music had powerfully affective and often therapeutic capacities that spanned these categorical boundaries. Using a common metaphor through which mind is likened to an object or machine, plus the sort shown in Wright’s commonplaces by which music serves as a tool, John Dowland considered music the “mind-­tempering art, [which] the grave Luther was not afraid to place in the next seat to divinity.”34 Human well-­being was largely a matter of maintaining proper equilibrium between each individual’s mortal and immortal, or sensing and thinking, components. It was therefore the province of divinity as well as physical medicine. “For man being framed of body & soule,” explains Du Laurens, his will shall either encline to the body or the minde: if to the bodie, because it was framed of earth, which draweth downwardes, hee cannot comprehend, nor desire any other thing but terrestrial, and earthly matters. If to the minde, because it is nothing but a celestiall sprite, he cannot covet after anie other thing, then to mount on high, where al perfection consisteth, and disdaine fraile thinges, which are on the earth.35

Participation in music helped maintain proper balance because its heard and understood aspects spoke respectively to body and mind and brought them to accord. If the separation of thinking and sensing parts is a metaphor, then music constitutes a powerful countermetaphor for their reunification. Northbrooke, who considered the art at the start of the native praise-­and-­dispraise trend, positions it as moderating both together. “Why doth musicke so rapt and ravishe men in a manner wholy?” asks Youth of Age in Northbrooke’s dialogic treatise reproving idle pastimes. Age replies that The reason is playne: for there are certaine pleasures which only fill the outward senses, and there are others which pertaine only to the mynde or rea-

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son; but musick is a delectation so put in the middest, that both by the sweetnesse of the sounds it moveth the senses, and by the artificiousnesse of the number and proportions, it delighteth reason itselfe.36

Considerations of music continue to position it between individual perception and shared experience, still ontologically “mysterious,” still moderating mind and body, and still connecting self to others and the world as early modern thinkers had emphasized.37

Sound, Soul, and Sense During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, discussion of the nature and properties of music most often began with sound. Whatever the root of music’s phenomenal effects, that which contented or disturbed soul and sense was an acoustic art transmitted through a diffuse medium to the listener from one or more bodies. “The Object of this Science is Sound,” pronounces the proem of Christopher Simpson’s much-­reprinted Compendium of Practical Music.38 Musical judgment developed in response to sound, and it was common knowledge even by Boethius’s day that music affected and reshaped the mind through the sense of hearing.39 Shakespeare’s Lorenzo so poignantly explains eternal music by analogy to the earthly sounding sort, and Jessica responds affectively to the kind she hears. It was Shakespeare’s man who was not moved with concord of sweet sounds who was untrustworthy and siren sound by Mulcaster’s account that bewitched and pulled away the minds of those who objected to music in sacred context.40 For Ling, like Birchensha and Shakespeare, sound defined and enabled music’s effects; for Northbrooke it is what moved the senses to rapture. “O thou power of sound / How thou doth melt me” (italics mine) exclaims one of playwright John Marston’s characters as he and the audience listen to music meant to represent magic and erotic desire at work.41 Music was connected to and distinguished from related endeavors by its acoustic properties. Moxon specifically sets it apart from the other six liberal sciences by its defining qualities of sound. “Musick,” begins the relevant entry in his mathematical dictionary, Is one of the Seven Liberal Sciences, and a fourth Branch in the general Division of the Mathematics, having for its object Discrete Quantity or Number, but considers it not absolutely like Arithmetick but with proportion of Time

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  171

and Sound, and in order to making a delightful Harmony; so that indeed Musick is nothing else but the Agreement, apt Proportion and Mixture of Acute, Grave, and Mixt sounds.42

Yet most surviving artifacts from early modern England encode aurality above the other senses, demanding to be heard even when transmitted in graphic form. This contrasts with the dominance of visual material from Italy in the same era and reinforces the idea especially embraced by Reform thinkers that hearing was the most trustworthy sense, least fallen in the postlapsarian body, least likely to be deceived by worldly vanities.43 Furthermore, aurality was accounted a more pleasurable way than vision to receive information. “Wee are more recreated with Hearing than with Reading,” explains early seventeenth-­ century English physician and anatomist Helkiah Crooke (1576–1648), “For we are wonderfully delighted in the hearing of fables and playes acted upon a Stage, much more then if wee learned them out of written books.”44 The nature of sound and processes of hearing belonged to disciplines that intersected with music or considered relationships between human interiority and the external world. Foremost among these were anatomy, physiology, divinity, and natural and occult philosophy. Before the foundation of modern acoustic science, no single field of inquiry claimed sound as its prime objective, though the stage was set through natural philosophy. This is where most scholarship to date has concentrated, with emphasis on the physical bases of sound and the mechanics of hearing.45 Even into an age of experimentalism and remapping bodily structures, early modern English thinkers continued to consult over two thousand years of disparate and sometimes contradictory information about sound. Crooke reminds readers that the most revered classical “Phylosophers” remained “diversely different in their opinions” of the mechanisms of sound and the manner of hearing.46 As with other arts and sciences, investigations into sound and hearing from the late sixteenth century to the end of the seventeenth reevaluated received wisdom while raising new kinds of questions and devising innovative approaches to old ones. These included the nature of musical consonance and fundamental mechanics of sound. There were subjective and objective approaches, different emphases on textual authority and direct observation, and uses of quantitative and qualitative information. Novel investigative methods into acoustic phenomena challenged centuries of received wisdom, especially starting in Italy and concerning the physical bases of sound. Yet earlier ideas also remained current among many thinkers, especially in pre-­Restoration En-

172  Chapter four

gland.47 Crooke’s slightly older contemporary Francis Bacon, perhaps early modern England’s preeminent writer on acoustic phenomena, engaged in original experimentation and aesthetic insight even as he remained theoretically grounded in the textual heritage of Aristotle, Aristoxenus, Neoplatonism, and more recent Italian thinkers.48 Like music, sound in general was ascribed physical and spiritual aspects, had direct influence on bodily structures and internal processes, and belonged to a natural world with both evident and hidden dimensions. Not all early modern English thinkers considered each of these any more than did their sources, and not all approached sound from the same perspective. Yet most touched on its physical production, physiological processes of reception, and organic response. It was only at the end of the seventeenth century that Newton clarified the underlying mechanisms of sound waves, long conjectured by analogy to water. Only in 1728 did his insights become available in English. From Aristotle onward, however, the defining characteristic of sound had been movement, even if there was disagreement about specifics. Crooke explains most simply on the combined authority of Aristotle and unspecified “others” that “A Sound is a passive and successive qualitie produced from the inception and breaking of the Aire or Water which followeth upon the collision or striking of two sounding Bodyes, and so fit to move the Sense of Hearing.”49 Natural philosopher Sir Kenelm Digby (1603–1665) confirms that “sound is nothing but motion” and properly belongs to such liberal arts as rhetoric, poetry (“metering”), song, and instrumental music as well as to “mechanicall artes” such as instrument making and “the trade of bellsounders.” Furthermore, he says, vision and touch may confirm by way of a lute that sound “is nothing else, but an undulation of the ayre, caused by the smart and thicke vibration of the corde [i.e., string]” and that “motion and sound are in themselves one and the same thing, although expressed by different names.”50 “Sound is made by Motion,” concurs Crooke, or, as Bacon puts it more specifically, by elision of the air or other appropriate fluid medium.51 Anatomist, surgeon, and doctor of physic Alexander Read (or Reid, ca. 1570–1641) emphasizes hearing as a dynamic process between the external world and the brain. He explains in a manual of dissection that “the outward eare is always open, because we have ever need of this sense. It is a beauty to the head, it is a defense to the braine, by moderating the sounds, that they may gently move the tympanum, and it gathereth the sounds dispersed in the ayre.”52 The openness of the ear serves as a distinctive feature of the organ and the

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  173

physiological process it enables. In this context, the auditory receptors serve an entirely positive function by beautifying the head and defending the brain. In contrast, Sydenham and Thomas Wright are concerned with offices of the soul rather than anatomy, physiology, or physics. Therefore, in spite of confessional differences, they foreground the influence of music on the human organism, especially its emotive apparatus. Both concur that the defining attribute of sound is motion, but they emphasize affective potential above aural anatomy, heart over brain. “According to the best philosophie [sound] is nothing else but a certaine artificiall shaking, crisping, or tickling of the ayre” begins Wright in words almost identical to Sydenham’s definition of “Sonus ipse, the very sound it selfe.” For their purposes, though, this quality simply “passeth thorow the eares, and by them unto the heart, and there it beateth and tickleth in such sort, as it is moved with semblable passions,” as Wright puts it.53 Bacon, who made use of an impressive range of musical instruments as well as natural objects in his acoustic experiments, divides sounds into a musical-­nonmusical binary. This is entirely in keeping with his emphasis on both musical aesthetics and the more general nature of sound. “All Sounds are either Musicall Sounds, which we call Tones” he tells us, “Or Immusicall Sounds, which are ever Unequall.” Among the latter, he classifies “the Voice in Speaking, all Whisperings, all Voices of Beasts, and Birds (except they bee Singing Birds;) all Percussions, of Stones, Wood, Parchment, Skins (as in Drummes;) and infinite others.”54 Bacon and Crooke are adamant on ancient authority supported by observation that sound could be transmitted through any porous medium, including fire and water. It was even “generated, where there is no Aire at all,” says Bacon. Building on time-­honored tradition and cross-­domain analogy, Crooke likens the movement of sound to the way in which “the influences of the Stars may be dispensed in this inferior world”: the dispersal of local motion, followed by a series of increasingly distant actions in consequence. In the case of sound, the sequence of events was initial contact between two bodies, the fraction or breaking of the surrounding medium (water, fire, or air), responsive sounding of the same medium, and then the sound itself. By its nature, the process was temporal. Bacon notes that in contrast to light and color, there must be some degree of resistance “either in the Aire, or the Body Percussed” in order for sound to be given off.55 Sound was thus a natural phenomenon propagated by physical bodies and processes and potentially perceptible through the organs and mechanisms of hearing. The sounds most discussed by early modern thinkers were mediated by air and received into

174  Chapter four

those ever-­open organs with direct pathway to the brain or heart. In contrast to the more general production of sound as a species, “the medium or meane of Hearing is the externall Ayre” rather than any other porous conductor, as Crooke puts it on Aristotelian authority. This mediating air, “endowed with the quality of a sound” from the percussive contact between two bodies, moves “through the auditory passage which outwardly is always open.” It proceeds successively through the membranes, burrows, and labyrinthine parts of the ear “and lastly into the Auditory Nerve” from which it is conveyed to the internal faculties of sensation and judgment. Crooke is equally adamant, even in disagreement with some earlier experts, that the actual organ of hearing is neither the vibrant air admitted into the body nor airous entities already present. It is the auditory nerve, he explains, that actually processes the airous medium to enable sensation and subsequent response. “And this,” concludes Crooke after evaluating diverse earlier explanations of the process, “is the true manner of hearing.”56 Bacon adds that “Sounds are meliorated by the Intention of the Sense [of hearing].” After reception into the body, acoustic signals are sorted specifically to “the particular Sense of Hearing,” at which point sight is suspended in favor of auditory process and assessment.57 In keeping with their era’s dominant understanding of sense perception, Bacon and Crooke, natural philosopher and physician, specify that immediately after entrance into the body through each successive part of the aural anatomy, sounds were processed through the common sense. This was not the raw instinct or native intelligence later denoted by the term but the faculty of the animal (or sensitive) soul identified by the Stoics and Aristotle whereby we perceive that we are perceiving, or sense that we can sense. The common sense was understood as the site of sense impressions—literal imprints from objects perceived—that could then be transmitted to other internal faculties. It served as the first step toward cognition or even consciousness. Most simply, it sorted sense data for further processing, especially necessary when information about one object or set of objects was provided through multiple sensory pathways, such as a performance seen and heard, fragrant food touched and tasted, or white and cold and actively falling snow. The common sense had been located by Aristotle in the soft, yielding heart. It was subsequently positioned by Galen and later Avicenna in the anterior part of the equally pliant brain where it remained for most—but not all—early modern thinkers. Only after passing through this malleable faculty could received information be sorted to the most appropriate “particular sense” or senses. The common sense was a site for sensory synesthesia as well

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  175

as the kind of suppression Bacon describes of one sense in favor of another. This faculty was believed to categorize sensory objects and information before delivering them through the appropriate interior pathway for judgment and response. It also coordinated and unified what were sometimes complex and complementary sensations taken in at once, enabling coherent interpretation of potentially jumbled data by turning it into mental images. Affective and aesthetic judgment—delight or disgust of soul and sense—were ultimately enabled by passage through the common sense.58 Bacon, like his contemporaries and intellectual forbear Aristotle, was well aware that information could be received at once through multiple sense receptors. This is how he explains that “Sounds are sweeter (as well as greater)” at night than by day when light was more intense.59 In complement, Crooke observes that “Those things which are seene are always intentionally imprinted & therefore the Act of Seeing is sooner ended and passeth more lightly by the Sense than the Act of Hearing.”60 Early modern thinkers as distinct as Bacon, Crooke, Sydenham, and Wright had inherited from antiquity and the Middle Ages a systematic process of sense perception by which information was passed from bodily receptors through common sense and from there to the rational faculties or immortal soul for assessment. Sensation thus began in the body but ended in the soul. It was both active and passive, requiring “neede of Passion or an alteration of the Organ” of sense “whence afterward followes the Action of the faculty” of judgment.61 It therefore depended on cooperation between external and internal, sensing and thinking, and even mortal and eternal aspects of the human organism. It was, on the collective authority of Aristotle, Galen, Averroes, Avicenna, and their subsequent filters a faculty of the soul that relied for fulfillment on the sensible body. Sensation may have been the preeminent task of that soul enclosed in the living body. “Amongst all the offices of the soule this faculty of sensation seemeth to challenge the chiefe place,” says Crooke. Neither that faculty only which is lodged within and receiveth the images of things, and after deliberation or discourse doth judge of them; but much more that the whole sett of senses which doe outwardly perceive all sensible objects, and perceived, doe carie them to the Tribunall of the Internall sense, and doe so enforme it, that it is able to pronounce a true judgement concerning them. For without these externall senses, we must needs acknowledge the Internall imperfect & unprofitable. For if wee conceive any thing in

176  Chapter four

our minds, & nourish that conceit by discourse . . . wee shall observe that all things had their original from the outward senses, so neither could colours, odours, nor flavours be knowne, neither could the Internall sense discourse of sounds, or any of the Tactile qualities without the message as it were, and information of the outward senses, by which the Images of thinges are imprinted on it.62

Along with this collaborative faculty and its process of reception, imprint, sorting, and judgment, the early modern era had inherited a hierarchy of sensation that positioned the five senses in relative order of importance. Just as some physical things remained earthbound, three senses relied on close contact between the body and the relevant object, while two received direct information from beyond the reach of skin and bone. Crooke’s “Dilucidation or Exposition of the Controversies belonging to the Senses and their Instruments” reminds readers that all five worked in tandem and that each was best matched to specific objects or substances from which stimulus it rendered perceptual judgment. Nonetheless, all senses had, as Sydenham puts it, “an admirable multiplicitie of objects which delight them.” Vision and hearing were strongest, touch most common and perhaps the one from which others were activated, and smell and taste the lowest.63 Each sense, beginning with the most physiologically involuted one, taste, and moving outward through touch, smell, hearing, and vision, extended further from the body until it could process information from as far as the heavens. Therefore, vision and hearing were best able to elevate the human mind beyond carnal confines and inspire higher thoughts and deeds. Such concentric ordering from taste to smell to touch to hearing to sight lent further significance to the topos of Music of the Spheres, rendering it a means of explaining sensory as well as intellectual knowledge.64 Bacon considers the arts related to the two most pristine senses the most learned and liberal because of the physiological purity of auditory and visual reception and because of their concomitant closeness to mathematics: In the last place [in a discussion of the division of knowledge apprehended by the human body] we come to the Arts of Pleasure: They, as the senses to which they referre, are of two kinds; Painting delights the eye, especially, with an infinite number of such [visual] Arts. . . . Musique delights the eare; which is set out with such variety and preparation of Voices; Aires, and Instruments. . . . These Arts belonging to the eye and the ear are principally above the rest ac-

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  177

counted Liberall; these two senses are more chast; the sciences thereof more learned, as having in their traine the Mathematique Art as their Handmaid.65

Since vision was mostly positioned one rung higher than hearing on the ladder of sensation, it is noteworthy that The Praise of Musicke, the earliest English-­language compendium concerned with auditory experience, begins by bringing the ear forward from beyond the eye to add a dimension of delight. The author is especially conscious of using a medium directed toward vision but recognizes circumstances under which hearing has an advantage. “It were but lost labour to write any thing of Musick,” begins chapter 1, were it not that more indifferencie is to be looked for of the eye, to whose view and oversight shee betaketh herselfe, than hath heretofore been shewen by the eare. . . . And the eye by which in a manner hath beene kept hungry from these things, may by sight and reading hereof, both satisfie her selfe, and teach her ungratefull neighbor the eare to thinke better of so comfortable a treasure.66

A quarter century later, Bacon presents a synesthetic analogy that reinforces the ancient understanding that vision is stronger than hearing and that also references sight to shed metaphorical light on the aesthetic capacities of hearing. “The Causes of that which is Pleasing, or Ingrate to the hearing,” he says, may receive light by that which is Pleasing or Ingrate to the Sight. There be two Things Pleasing to the Sight . . . these two are, Colours and Order. The Pleasing of Colour symbolizeth with the Pleasing of any Single Tone to the Eare; But the Pleasing of Order doth symbolize with Harmony. . . . And both these Pleasures, that of the Eye and that of the Eare, are but the Effects of Equality; Good Proportion, or Correspondence.67

Judgment of sensory objects was thus rooted in the same mathematically ordered “Rat’on of Proport’ons” perceptible to the rational soul. According to Platonic and Aristotelian authority, only human beings, whose animal instincts were sublimated by their divinely granted spiritual and intellectual capacities, could derive pleasure through sensation or rise to a higher world through sensory catalysis. Apprehension of the pleasurable, the beautiful, or the harmonious began with the physical act of sensing shared by humans and

178  Chapter four

animals. But only in human beings could it progress through abstraction to recognition of something perfect and eternal beyond the object itself: true contentment of soul as well as sense.68 Products created for edification or aesthetic pleasure sometimes suggested transference of objects and experiences principally associated with one sense to another or the general sense that one was sensing before the tribunal of internal sense had sorted incoming signals. It was a tribute to the skill of a creator in a medium primarily intended for one sense receptor to stimulate another. Resultant works could greatly delight soul and sense or invert or otherwise scramble the conventional order that led from self to higher things by successive distance between sense receptor and object sensed. Music that activated other senses, especially vision, could play positively or as warning with the idea that we are more recreated by hearing than by seeing. It also redoubled the idea that intellectual access to sensory information relied on the body and the common sense. According to Morley and Butler, the process of composing texted music began by using appropriate musical devices to translate the sense and meaning of individual words and longer verbal phrases into sound that enhanced the given affect. The composer especially had to match harmony, note values, melodic motion, and tempo to words encoding such states as sadness, joy, or repentance. At a more obviously visual level, Morley and Butler also emphasize the necessity for appropriate word-­painting for text that invokes image or spatial change. “You must have a care that when your [textual] matter signifieth ascending, high heaven, and such like, you make your musicke ascend,” dictates Morley to the would-­be composer, “and by the contrarie where your dittie speaketh of descending[,] lowenes, depth, hell, and other such, you must make your musicke descend.”69 Skillful composers represented even more complex imagery in sound, enabling that which was “pleasing or ingrate” to sight to be synesthetically illuminated by the parallel effects of proportion and correspondence in music. An excellent example of such audible kinesthetic imagery that additionally reminds the listener of both the complementary and distinct offices of soul and sense is Thomas Weelkes’s paired six-­part madrigals “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie” (ex. 4.1) and “The Andelusian Merchant” (ex. 4.2). The two appear successively in a set of printed partbooks of five-­and six-­voice madrigals by Weelkes. This format predisposed participants to take greater delight in hearing than reading, because only through the former could they fit their part to others and so complete the work. The close listening required for singing or playing from partbooks prioritized hearing above sight, and further encouraged more cursory engagement with visible than audible ma-

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  179

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œ œ œ J phie, the pe - riod of Cos - mo - gra . ú œ œ j Vb œ œ œ œ. phie, the pe - œ riod of Cos - mo œ œ ? b œ . œ œ . Jœ œ J pe

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Example 4.1a Thomas Weelkes, “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 1–15.

terial. The poem, perhaps by the composer, contrasts objects of external sense with interior passion, a comparative cosmography that finds the “little world” of the human being more amazing than the greatest natural marvels. Its text evokes a sequence of visual and tactile impressions of natural (and in one case human-­manufactured) wonders of the world in two stanzas, each com-

180  Chapter four

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Example 4.1b Thomas Weelkes, “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 16–30.

plemented by reference to the power of individual affect. In true Petrarchan manner, each also offers a pair of paradoxically contrasting sensory extremes. The words take the reader-­listener from the far north of the mapped world to the Mediterranean on a voyage from Asia and the New World past the Cape Verde islands to Spain and, in between, to the interiority of the narrator’s heart:

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  181

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& b 43 œ . a

& b 43 œ . a

V b 43 œ . a

a

the

∑

œ

ú

Œ

cri - an

Æt

-

næs

œ œ J cri - an j œ œ cri - an j œ œ

Æt

ú

-

næs

c œ

œ

œ.

œ œ J

œ

Æt

ú

-

næs

Æt

-

næs

Œ

œ as œ

Æt

-

næs

cri - an

j œ œ

cri - an

ú

ú

œ œ œ œ œ

c w

flames

c w

flames

c ú

as - cend

flames

c œ

flames

flames

œ

Ó

œ.

as - cend

zen

ú

the

ú

ú.

-

fro

bú.

-

zen

fro

-

zen

ú

the

not

œ œ œ œ œ

ú

as - cend,

œ œ J

not

œ.

Ó

- cend

high - er,

the

not

œ

Œ

as

-

Œ

hi - er,

œ Œ

cend

high - er

-

ú ú

-

-

Ó

ú

Trin -

Trin

-

Ó

œ. œ

œ.

œ

high - er

ú

- cend

∑

as - cend

Example 4.1c Thomas Weelkes, “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 31–45.

Thule, the period of Cosmographie, Doth vaunt of Hecla, whose sulphurious fire Doth melt the frozen Clime, and thaw the skie, Trinacrian AEtnas flames ascend not hier These things seem wondrous, yet more wondrous I, Whose hart with fear doth freeze, with love doth fry.

43

Œ œ 43

as - cend

not

43

Trin

œ

œ as œ œ œ œ J

not

Trin

Skie,

nœ

43

-

Trin

ú

Œ œ

43

Ó

œ œ œ Œ J

as - cend

high - er,

œ

Skie,

∑

Œ

ú

Ó

the

∑

Skie,

ú

œ

œ.

œ

as - cend,

ú

fro

Ó

c œ

œ œ J

zen

the

ú.

-

ú

ú

fro

Skie,

œ

-

-

Ó

næs

flames

zen

the

ú.

-

ú

ú

fro

ú

thaw the Skie, and thaw the Skie, the

-

-

a

and

Skie,

zen

the

ú.

-

œ œ n œJ œ Jœ ú ú and thaw the œ Skie, the Skie, Trin œ ú ú œ œ œ œ œ œ

œ

ú

œ

fro

œ

ú

cri - an

a

melt

Æt

-

V b 43 œ . ? 3 œ. b 4

j œ œ

doth

and thaw the Skie,

œ

and thaw the Skie, the

w

fire,

melt

œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ and thaw the Skie, and thaw the Skie, œ œ œ œ ú œ

Ó

ú

Doth

Ó

œ œ œ ú

œ œ œ ú

&b ú

Vb

fire,

bú.

ú

the

43

œ J

not

œ J

not

182  Chapter four

œ œ . Jœ œ œ œ ú &b Œ not hi - er, as - cend œ œ as - cend ú œ &b œ œ œ œ œ

ú

ú

not

hi

Ó

not high - er,

œ ú J

œ Œ

46

j œ œ. œ œ as - cend not high œ Œ œ œ

&b Œ

high - er, as - cend not

Vb

œ

Vb ú ?b

œ œ

high - er

not

bw &b

as

high - er,

∑

&b w &b ú

won

-

drous,

-

drous,

-

drous,

-

drous,

won

-

drous,

w

œ

more

won

-

I,

yet

more

I,

yet

œ

won

more

won

more

œ

won

œ

ú

I,

yet

more

won

I,

yet

more

won

ú

&b ú

Vb ú yet ú Vb ? nú b

bœ œ œ œ

w

w

œ

œ œ

œ

œ nœ œ ú

ú.

er,

as - cend

-

œ

œ

ú

œ drous

drous

drous

-

ú

-

drous

-

I,

œ drous

I,

w I,

œ œ œ J œ

not high - er, not

ú

high

-

œ w

œ

Œ

er,

ú

more

-

ú

Whose

w

ú

won

more

won

more

ú

won

-

more

won

-

ú

œ

hart

œ

Whose

w

œ

with

œ.

∑

œ

with

œ

feare

œ

œ

œ.

with

œ J

feare

œ

∑ ∑

feare

œ

œ.

doth

ú

drous

ú Ó

ú

w Ó

freeze,

freeze,

Ó

j œ w

doth

ú

drous

ú

I,

ú

freeze,

drous

ú

drous

Œ Œ

œ

Whose

œ œ

Whose

Whose

∑

Example 4.1d Thomas Weelkes, “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 46–61.

The Andelusian Merchant, that returnes Laden with Cutchinele and China dishes, Reports in Spaine how strangely Fogo burns Amidst an Ocean full of flying fishes: These things seeme wondrous, yet more wondrous I, Whose heart with fear doth freeze, with love doth frye.70

œ J

seeme

ú

drous

ú.

œ

doth

œ

seeme

ú ú

j œ

seeme

These things

drous

w

hart

hart

œ

-

œ.

ú -

ú.

œ

œ

seeme

These things

things

won

ú

seeme

ú.

œ

These

-

more

things

Œ

er

won

ú

ú

Œ

seeme

things

#w

Œ

ú

œ

-

not high

œ

things

ú.

not high - er, These

ú

I,

I,

These

ú

Whose

ú

œ œ J

œ

ú.

œ

more

I,

w

ú

-

w

ú

Œ

ú.

j œ œ œ œ

Ó

ú

ú

ú

These

œ.

ú

yet

yet

drous

ú

ú.

-

yet

Ó

er,

as - cend

yet

w

ú

œ.

Œ œ

ú

w

Ó

œ

as - cend

yet

yet

won

&b

Ó

-

Œ œ

œ. Œ œ

high

ú

Ó

drous,

Vb w

I,

∑

w

-

&b ú

not

w

won

57

as - cend

w

-

bú

? b bw

high - er

not

œ nœ œ œ Ó

œ œ.

Œ

cend

won

Vb w

-

cend

-

w

51

won

œ Ó er, œ œ œ

high - er, as

œ

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  183

&b

∑

62

&b

œ

&b œ hart œ Vb Vb ?

hart

hart

œ.

œ œ

œ J

œ

nœ

with

feare

doth

with

feare

with

feare

œ

œ.

doth

∑

œ J

doth

w ú ú

Ó

&b w

Œ

&b Ó

Œ

Vb ú

ú

w Vb

fry,

?

b

fry,

&b w

hart

with

œ

hart

œ

feare

with

feare

œ

œ

œ.

∑

Whose

&b Ó

& b #ú. love

Vb Ó

Vb w

love,

?b Ó

ú

w

with

ú

With

ú

With

ú

with

œ

hart

72

love,

œ.

œ

œ

doth

œ

∑

with

∑

feare

ú

love

œ

œ J

doth

doth

w

doth

fry,

Ó

nw

love

Ó

freeze,

bú

ú

love

Ó

ú

doth

ú

ú

j œ w

doth

ú

with

love

doth

bú

fry,

ú

with

love

doth

ú ú

w w

doth

Ó

w

∑

ú

ú.

with

love

Ó

∑ œ

bœ.

ú

hart

œ

with

feare

Whose

hart

with

∑

ú

œ

ú

bœ

Whose

hart

ú

fry,

nú

fry,

ú Ó

ú w

fry,

fry,

ú

œ

œ

with

doth

with

doth

œ

bœ. with

with

œ

j œ ú

doth

j œ w

œ.

feare

doth freeze,

ú

nú œ

doth

w œ œ ú

œ ú J

love

w

love

doth

doth

∑ ú

∑

With

ú

with

Œ

freeze,

love

œ

w

freeze,

ú

doth

œ doth

Ó

doth

ú.

ú

bú

œ

feare

∑

w

∑

whose

nú

fry,

∑

doth

∑

ú

fry,

doth

fry,

freeze,

freeze,

love

w

w

ú

nú

love,

w

doth

w

doth

love

∑

œ

#w

∑

Whose

Whose

œ

With

With

67

&b ú

ú

love

ú

ú

fry,

love

ú

w

with

œ

doth

With

ú

œ œ

Œ

freeze,

ú

Ó

love

Œ

freeze,

Œ

ú

With

freeze,

∑

b

ú

Ó

œ

With

U

w

U

fry.

w

U

fry.

w

U w

fry.

U

fry.

w

U

fry.

w

fry.

Example 4.1e Thomas Weelkes, “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 62–end.

The constant shift between fabled objects interior and exterior, visual and tactile, hot and cold, calls for appropriately evocative music. Weelkes does not disappoint. Instead of supporting poetic structure with a strophic setting, he conveys a series of distinct acoustic impressions of things seen, felt, and perhaps smelled. In an inversion of what Bacon describes for the two most pristine and mathematically precise senses, the composer makes use

184  Chapter four

b c · &b c

[Canto]

b c · &b c [Alto] b · c &b c Ó [Quinto]

b c · Vb c w

[Tenore]

b c · Vb c

[Sesto]

b c ? c b ·

[Basso]

..

&b œ Œ Œ œ

œ

6

& b œ œœ ú turnes,

Œ

that

The

∑ ∑

Ó Ó

ú

œ.

The

ú

œ . œj œ œ

ú

The

œ. œ œ œ J

The

An - de - lu - sian

∑

∑

An - de - lu - sian

∑

œ.

An

-

An

-

œ

ú.

∑

ú

Mer

Œ œ

œ.

de - lu - sian

œ

-

Mer

œ

Mer - chant,

Mer

w

œ œ œ J de - lu - sian j œ œ œ

∑

Œ

œ

j œ. œ œ

-

Ó

chant

that

Ó

re

Ó

j œœ œ

œ

chant,

ú

ú

œ œ

Thomas Weelkes

Œ œ

chant that

re -

œ œ œ

œ

œ

œœ J

An - de - lu - sian

∑

∑ œœ œ Œ re - turnes, œ . œ œ œ . Jœ œ œ J

ú

-

œ œ.

the

œ

ú

that

Mer - chant, that

-

turnes, that

œ. œ.

The

An

ú

-

j œ œ œ j œ œ œ

re -

de - lu - sian

œ œ œ . Jœ œ œ œ œ J La - den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na j œ œ œ jj œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ The

œ.

An

-

œ

re -

œ œ œ

de - lu - sian

œ

œ

dish - es, and

œ œ œ ú œ œ œŒ Ó J re - turnes, La - den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na dish - es, œ œ Œ œ . œj œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ Œ œ . J J turnes, La - den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na dish - es, La den with œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ œ. œ nœ w JJ V b œ œ œ œœ œ ú J J Mer - chant that re - turnes, that re - turnes, La - den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na dish - es, La - den j j œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ ? œ œ Œ œ œ œœ ú ú. œ œœ œ œ œŒ Œ b J Mer - chant that re turnes, La - den with Cut - chin - ele and Chi - na dish - es, La 12 œ. œ œ œ ú œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . b Ó œ & J J Chi - na dish - es, La - den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi na dish - es, and Chi - na j j . œ œ œ & b œ œ œ . œ œ œ . œ œ œ œ œ œ Jœ n œ œ œ œ Œ œ . J dish - es, La - den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na dish - es Chi - na dish - es, with Cut j j La - œden j œ œ . b œ œ œ œ Œ œ œ . & œ. œ œ œ œ œ œ ú J J œ œ La den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi na dish - es, La den with Cut - chi - nele œ œ . . œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ œ. œ œ Vb J œ œ J œ œ J J J Cut chi - nele and Chi - na dish - es, La den with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na dish - es, La - den with œ œ œ œ œ . œ j œ œ œ Œ Ó Œ œ. œ œ œ. œ œ œ Vb œ J J with Cut - chi - nele and Chi - na di - shes, La - den with Cut chi - nele and œ œ œ . j œ j œ œ ú ?b œ œ œ œ œ œ ú œ œ œ œ œ œ œ . Jœ J J J & b œ œœ œ œ œ ú. turnes, that re - turnes, œ Ó ∑ Vb œ re - turnes,

-

den with

Cut

-

La - den with Cut - chi - nele and

chin - ele

œ ú

and

Chi - na

œ.

Chi - na - dish - es, La

dish - es, and Chi

-

na

-

den with Cut - chi - nele and

dish - es, La

-

den with

Chi

Cut

-

-

na

chi -

Example 4.2a Thomas Weelkes, “The Andelusian Merchant,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 1–16.

of proportion and correspondence to suggest through hearing what is pleasing or ingrate to sight. At the top of the (imagined) world map, Hecla’s “sulphrious” fires rise and twist musically around each other in close range and at a furious pace. In striking contrast, the frozen landscape above which they soar melts slowly across an unexpected chromatic spectrum beginning as distantly as ice from fire in the same geography: D major after d minor, pivoting through a sharped F in the alto part. As far from England in the opposite

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  185 2

œ

&b

17

œ

&b œ -

Vb Vb ?

-

and

ú

-

Cut

b œ

œ

Chi

œ

œ œ Œ dish - es, œ œ

dish - es,

nú

and

Chi - na

œ

and

œ

how

&b œ

œ

ú ∑

&b

Spaine, how strange

Vb

strange

Vb ú ?

œ

b Œ

œ

ú

ly

œ nú

Spaine, how strange

-

how strange

-

œ ú &b

bœ

28

&b Ó

Œ œ

strange - ly

&b ú

ú

how

V b nœ bœ œ œ Fo

Vb w

-

strange - ly

?b Ó

burnes,

œ

-

œ.

ly

œ nú

Fo

ú

-

Fo - go

burnes,

Ó

nœ

strange - ly

in Spaine,

Re - ports

in Spaine,

œ œ

∑

bœ

go burnes,

Ó -

Ó

ú Ó

Fo

œ

œ ú bú

-

Fo - go

strange - ly

burnes,

œ.

how strange - ly

strange - ly

œ. œ w J how

burnes,

bœ

∑

Ó

Œ œ

œ nú

bœ

ú

Fo

Fo

-

œ œ Ó

it

ú

Fo

go burnes,

œ

strange

-

œ bœ

strange, how

strange - ly

-

œ Œ

-

œ

how

ú

-

go

∑

bœ

ly

how

strange - ly

Ó

strange

w

-

nœ

Œ œ -

ly

how

œ

go

burnes,

Fo

œ œ nú ∑

-

Œ œ

Fo

how

go burnes,

Fo

ú

œ.

œ

Œ

œ #ú

go burnes,

-

how strange - ly

œ

in

œ œ ú

ú.

œ nœ bœ

strange - ly

œ

∑

Re - ports

burnes,

œ #œ œ

œ #œ nœ œ

œ œ how œ

go

go burnes, Fo

burnes, how

Œ

Œ œ

ú

Fo - go burnes,

how

œ ú J

Œ

Fo

œ œ ú

œ

ú

œ

#œ nœ ú

strange - ly

Œ œ nœ bœ

go

-

in

Spaine,

Spaine,

strange - ly

strange - ly

how

ú

Fo

œ #œ nœ Œ w

ú

ú

ú

how

œ ú

how

Œ

ú.

nœ

strange - ly

Œ œ

Ó

go burnes,

∑

in

œ ú

how

∑

Spaine,

ports

-

Ó

in

j œ

Spaine

œ.

ú

in Spaine,

ú

Œ œ

œ œ ú

ly

Œ œ

Ó

go burnes,

œ . Jœ ú

in

œ #ú

burnes, how

-

w

œ œ ú

Re - ports

œ œ ú

-

how

œ

œ œ ú

Fo - go burnes,

œ ú J

strange

ú.

œ

Re

œ œ ú

Re - ports

in

ú

Re - ports in Spaine,

Re - ports

go

Fo

Fo

ú

burnes,

how

∑

ly

go

ú

Fo

Œ œ

œ nœ ú

Re - ports

œ œ ú

Œ œ œ œ

ú

œ œ ú Fo - go burnes, ú bú

ú

-

dish - es,

ly

Ó

œ

Œ

œ bœ ú

ly

-

Œ

dish - es,

œ œ Œ

ú.

œ œ Œ œ

dish - es,

Œ œ

Ó

es,

œ œ Œ

dish - es,

-

strange

œ œ Ó

-

Ó

na

œ œ Œ

œ

Chi - na

ú

&b œ

œ

na

œ

-

Chi - na

-

œ

œ

and

œ œ J

œ

nele

œ

œ

dish

chi - nele

Chi

22

œ

ú

nœ

Chi - na

chi - nele

œ

œ

and

es,

œ.

œ

Œ

œ œ œ &b J J dish

Fo

-

œ #œ ú

œ œ ú

go burnes,

œ œ ú

Fo - go burnes,

-

œ ú J

go burnes,

go burnes,

Ó

Example 4.2b Thomas Weelkes, “The Andelusian Merchant,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 17–33.

geographic direction, Sicilian Aetna’s flames rise briskly and almost incessantly as voices overlap. This action is stopped only by a slower, lower—truly introspective—look into the self. The Andalusian merchant ship fluctuates gently up and down as it heads home steadily at a goodly clip with exotic consumer goods from the Americas and Asia; the vivid red of cochineal and

186  Chapter four

ú

-

midst

A

-

ú

midst

nú

A

-

midst

ú

an

ú. O

ú A

&b Ó

&b Ó Vb w

ú ú

an

an

ú

ú

ú

Vb w

-

midst

ú

an

A

-

A

-

A

?b w &b œ

39

&b

œ

œ œ

es,

&b œ œ œ

?

O

-

cean

midst

an

O

-

cean

ú

Œ

ú.

œ œ œ œ œ

œ œ œ œ œ full of

œ b œ œ œ œ

full of

œ

&b w

ú

yet

ú

more

ú

more

ú

Vb w Vb Ó

yet

?b w

yet

ú

yet

ú

ú

œ

Œ

œ

œ

fly

fly - ing fish

-

full of fly - ing fish -

ú

-

#w

es,

w

won

-

ú

w

won

-

more

won

more

won

-

more

won

-

ú

Œ œ

ú. w w

-

These things

œ Œ œ ú.

fly - ing

of

-

ú

es,

-

œ

drous

ú ú

fish - es,

es,

Œ œ ú.

ú ú

drous

ú

drous

ú

ú

ú

I,

ú

ú

drous

Ó

drous

ú

drous

Œ

j œ. œ

œ œ

seeme

bw

-

ú bú

drous,

won

w

-

drous,

won

w

-

drous,

won

-

drous,

ú.

-

drous,

bw

œ

I,

more

won

I,

yet

ú won œ œ-

won

more

won

-

I,

œ

yet

more

won

I,

yet

more

won

nú

œ

œ

w w w

-

ú

ú.

œ

drous

drous

-

œ more œ œ

w

œ nœ œ ú

œ œ

w

won

won

ú yet ú

w

drous,

more

ú

œ

es,

-

yet

œ

-

won

I,

ú

œ

w

bœ

seeme

es,

-

full of fly - ing

full of fly - ing fish

seeme

œ

œ œ œ œ

Œ

ú

These things

œ œ

œ bœ œ œ œ

es,

-

-

full of

full of fly - ing fish

œ

3

full of fly - ing œ œ œ œ œ

es,

œ œ œ œ- es,œ b œ œ

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Example 4.2c Thomas Weelkes, “The Andelusian Merchant,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 34–50.

cool blue and white of China dishes are suggested only by understanding of the words and not in Weelkes’s setting. On the other hand, the island volcano Fogo, off the west coast of Africa for those familiar with the era’s world maps, burns slowly with remarkably unexpected harmonies and descending lines while flying fish leap and dive energetically just beyond it. Again, the narrative

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  187 4

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Example 4.2d Thomas Weelkes, “The Andelusian Merchant,” Madrigals of 5. and 6. Parts (1600), mm. 51–end.

self—six separate “I’s” that come together as a single harmonious chord each time the word is pronounced—is lower, slower, and more deliberate, with occasional touches of chromaticism to suggest its complexity, mutability, capacity for the extremes of fear and love, and the interior cogitation ending in the ever-­kinetic heart.71

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From broadly global to internal cosmography—from sense to soul, or global circumnavigation to the course of human affect—Weelkes places emphasis on ceaseless wonder through the unpredictable changes and multisense text-­painting. For the early modern era, as passed on from earlier sages, wonder and its close relative amazement were passions induced by encounters with the unfamiliar. In response, the heart beat more quickly in a manner superficially similar to fear and the soul attended more closely in fascination to the objective cause. Like all passions, wonder induced impressions on the malleable internal sense receptors of the body before passage to the soul. Bacon says that wonder causes astonishment and an involuntary lifting of hands and casting upward of the eyes in “a Kinde of Appeale to the Deity; Which is the Authour, by Power, and Providence, of Strange Wonders.”72 In Weelkes’s madrigals, images of multisensory objects are created and passed for interior processing by way of music. And the unity of music and text suggests the most sublime wonders created by that Author of all things in both the greater world and its perfect reflection in the human being. Weelkes’s translation of image through text to music may have even further emphasized both point and process. Sydenham explains with yet another reference to water that it is music itself—not its text—that impresses on the heart and so moves its affections. Sound, he says, passeth through the eares, and by them unto the heart; and there it beateth and tickleth it in such sort, that it is moved with semblable passions, like a calme water ruffled with a gale of wind: For as the heart is most delicate and tender. so most sensible of the least impressions that are conjecturable; and it seemes that Musicke in those Cells, playes with the animall and vitall spirits, the onely goades of passion; So that although we lay altogether aside the consideration of Ditty or Matter, the very murmure of sounds rightly modulated and carried through the porches of our eares to those spirituall roomes within, is by a native vigour more than ordinarily powerfull, both to move and moderate all affections.73

In addition to synesthetically suggesting things seen, music and the sense of hearing could reinforce information provided by the sense of sight. Organs for both activated the sensory process differently, and hearing was attributed with a kind of truth where vision could deceive. So such a sequence could either reinforce or negate a first impression. It could also, especially for the individual already drowned in sensual pleasures, lead more literally inward from one sense receptor to another if sight progressed to hearing and sub-

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  189

sequently to touch (and maybe then to smell and taste) rather than retaining the chaste distance enabled by eye and even ear. In such cases, the individual whose soul already inclined toward sensation stood in danger of dissolution where a more spiritual individual could rise toward the divine. Hearing stood on the ladder of sensation between sight and touch, capable of complementing the former and leading to higher things or deeper into actions of the flesh by way of the latter. The desire to touch after seeing was quintessentially erotic, and sound and music had the capacity to bridge the two or keep the mind on higher things. Bacon reminds us that “in Lust, the Sight, and the Touch, are the Things desired,” which explains how “Lust causeth a Flagrancy in the Eyes; and Priapisme.”74 The widespread topos of sensory seduction by an attractive musician seen and heard, usually female and almost invariably affecting a male beyond reason, perhaps best illustrates the potential dangers of audiovisual sensory overload and resultant besotment. The circumstance is more charged when the musician plays an instrument, with its inherent suggestion of touch even when seen and heard at a distance. Sir John Harington (1560–1612) summarizes the general situation concisely and with gentle wit, confessing ravishment by sensory overload and his resultant fixation on the performer’s person rather than her sight or sound. The latter two become united by that most synesthetic term borrowed from the closely held sense of taste: Upon an Instrument of pleasing sound A Lady playd More pleasing to the sight. I being askt in which of these I found Greatest content, my senses to delight? Ravisht in both at once, as much as may be Said, Sweet was Musike, sweeter was the lady.75

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 128 is especially deft in its suggestion through words of the conflation of sound, sense, sight, touch, and desire that ends in an imperative to kiss (taste). His multisensory image additionally relies on the metaphorical convention by which a musical instrument figures a human body: the virginals are set up as a rival for his beloved’s practiced touch. Both bodies are synecdochically figured by specific organs and their associated senses: How oft when thou my musike musike playst, Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds With thy sweet fingers when thou gently swayst,

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The wiry concord that mine eare confounds, Do I envie those Jackes that nimble leape, To kisse the tender inward of thy hand, Whilst my poore lips which should that harvest reape, At the woods bouldnes by thee blushing stand. To be so tikled they would change their state, And situation with those dancing chips, Ore whome th[y] fingers walke with gentle gate, Making dead wood more blest then living lips, Since sausie Jackes so happy are in this, Giue them th[y] fingers, me thy lips to kisse.76

Sound is here defined by an infectious sort of motion that crosses between airy invisibles and bodies both alive and mechanically activated. The opening double reference to music serves as a reminder not only of harmony audible and abstract but also the synesthetic pleasures of eye and ear to receive good proportion and correspondence. George Chapman (1559/60–1634), too, presents a poetic narrator who moves from contemplating the sight and sound of his musician-­beloved to a kiss in Ovids Banquet of Sense. Chapman’s narrator’s even more deliberative action, however, takes place over 117 nine-­line stanzas inspired by Ovidian erotic poetry, lingering almost parodically on the pleasures of each sense in descending order of distance from bodily receptor. The pivot away from what Bacon considers the two most chaste senses and toward desire comes from the beloved’s music. As the title character and narrator secretly watches his beloved Corinna in her garden, it is not the sight of her body rising from the fountain where she had bathed nor that of her “happy Lute” resting between her naked thigh or divinely beautiful breast that activates his ardor. It is the combined sound of her voice and instrument that ravishes him through his ear and sense of hearing and eventually leads many stanzas later through the remaining three senses to a kiss. Even here, emphasis is on the capacity of musical sound to bridge sense and soul and to activate the interior mechanism of response through invasion and impression: Never was any sence so sette on fire With an immortall ardor, as myne eares; Her fingers to the strings doth speeche inspire And numbered laughter; that the deskant beares

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  191

To hir sweete voice·whose species through my sence My spirits to theyr highest function reares; To which imprest with ceaseles confluence It useth them, as propper to her powre Marries my soule, and makes it selfe her dowre; Me thinks her tunes flye guilt, like Attick Bees To my eares hives, with hony tryed to ayre; My braine is but the combe, the wax, the lees, My soule the Drone, that lives by their affayre. O so it sweets, refines, and ravisheth, And with what sport they sting in theyr repayre? Rise then in swarms, and sting me thus to death Or turne me into swounde; possesse me whole, Soule to my life, and essence to my soule.77

As in Read’s anatomical description, the ear is presented as a complicated structure that leads directly to the proximate brain. As in Sydenham’s metaphor, that structure not only includes an architecturally distinct, accessible exterior but an interior for spiritual transformation. For Chapman, however, it is a hive of industrious activity as sound is impressed in the (fragrant) wax and (sweetly tasty) honeycomb to which he likens the organ that processes sense perception for the soul. The brain becomes the site on which the sound of Corinna’s music makes an impression from which, parallel to Wright’s and Sydenham’s account of what happens in the heart, the passions of the listener’s soul are moved. Chapman’s banquet is a literary feast for the senses and a celebration of the sensuality that ends in earthly eroticism, all suggested by sensory images in words. Even here, the purity of number and the insubstantial soul help figure the ravishing power of sounding music; whatever music may do to the listener’s body, it frees his soul and threatens to turn him into the pure essence of sound. Harington’s, Shakespeare’s, and especially Chapman’s metaphors all bridge in verbal image the effects of music on the body and internal faculties. These are rendered more powerful by collateral activation of other senses and perhaps a sense of sensing the soul’s (or is it just the body’s?) desire. The pleasure and potential danger inherent in audible music arose through sense reception and subsequent passage to the intellect. Even the mathematical laws of harmony—the mysterious numbers underlying proportionality—were rooted as well as manifest in perception and sensory judgment. It is striking that Ing-

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pen’s abstract numerological study, resonant with both Christian and pagan mysticism, links “Intellectual Musicke” not only to the faculties of reason but to all five senses.78 Robert Jones demonstrates in the Dedication to Prince Henry of his Ultimum Vale that practical musicians could defend sensation in the service of intellect and ultimately spirituality as well as could any natural philosopher, physician, poet, or divine: Almost all our knowledge is drawne through the senses, they are the Soules Intelligencers, whereby she passeth into the world, and the world into her, and amongst all of them, there is none so learned, as the eare, none hath obtained so excellent an Art, so delicate, so abstruse, so spirituall, that it catcheth up wilde soundes in the Aire, and bringes them under a government. . . . There is Musicke in all thinges, but every man cannot finde it out, because of his owne jarring, hee that must have a harmony in himselfe, that should goe about it, and then he is in a good way, as he that hath a good eare.79

In words strikingly similar to Lorenzo’s description of pure, unsullied celestial music in Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice, Jones presents the most beneficial aspect of his art to the worthy performer, placing the sounds of musica instrumentalis into sympathy with the hidden harmonies of musica humana and musica mundana. Since the suavity of practical music stems from its unity of pleasure and profit, as The Praise of Musicke tells us, “we may safely pronounce of the whole, that it hath both delectation to allure, and profit to perswade men, to those thinges, wherewith mans life is beautified and adorned.”80 Over a century later, when praising music had become a poetic convention and excuse for public celebration, Nicholas Brady still could still write, for Henry Purcell’s magnificently expressive setting, that Nature had, from St. Cecilia learnt the mighty Art To court the Ear and strike the Heart At once the Passions to express and move: We hear, and straight we grieve or hate, rejoice or love In unseen Chains it does the Fancy bind: At once it charms the Sense and captivates the Mind.81

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  193

To Captivate the Mind: Music and Interior Process Only in the verbal arts could things of sense transform instantly to things of mind, and only then through metaphor. The processes by which interior and exterior aspects of the human organism could evaluate the same data were less certain. Fundamentally, the material and immaterial aspects of the human being—whatever they were called and however the latter may have been divided—were separate and operationally incompatible. Yet the act of perception began in one system and ended in the other. The two recognized different languages and required exacting protocols plus third-­party facilitators to exchange information. Thus, the soul did not pass into the world, or the world into the soul, without translation at every step. This necessitated at least one mediator between soul and sense through which information had a chance to be misinterpreted. Crooke summarizes the problem succinctly on Galenic authority: “the Object [of sense] cannot work on the faculty [of the sensible soul], because an incorporeall thing, is not affected by that which is corporeall. But the faculty is incorporeall, and the Object corporeall.” Crooke also reminds readers of a fundamental principle that inspired theologians and creative artists across media: “to perceive is a kinde of passion or suffering” that ultimately put the mind or soul at the mercy of the object.82 To further complicate matters, the early modern era had inherited overlapping and sometimes contradictory ideas about what constituted the tribunal of internal sense and faculties of judgment. These were interrogated, recombined, and sometimes rejected during the seventeenth century as part of the general medical and philosophical reevaluation of sensation and perception that also included the nature of sound. Here, too, novel means of interpreting traditional ideas overlapped with startlingly original insights that eventually changed the ways in which future generations approached the topic.83 In terms of music, several models for presenting sense data to the interior faculties featured mechanisms with a strong affinity for the art, especially its temporally sequential nature and kinetic insubstantiality. Foremost among these processors were the spirits we have seen referenced in several musical contexts, from Ling’s basic definition to Chapman’s flight of poetic fancy about hearing an affecting lute song. Peacham the Younger, who introduces music in his manual for gentlemanly conduct as “a sister to Poetry,” explains that “the exercise of Musicke is a great lengthener of life, by stirring and reviving of the Spirits, holding a secret sympathy with them.”84 Music’s power

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over the human organism thus arises from its esoteric relationship to some vital but elusive component of it. Peacham enhances the commonplace of correspondence between music and spirit by presenting the former as a stimulus to which the latter reacts in kind. Inverse to Shakespeare’s Jessica, Case asks why, when music is suddenly heard, men feel in every fiber of their body as if it were the sweetest motion of happiness overcoming them. His answer is more didactic than Lorenzo’s. It also goes beyond attentive listening to the nature and working of the spirits themselves, to which he grants kinetic agency between mind and body—ultimately much like sound. The reason for this all-­encompassing response to music, Case tells us, is that the spirits are instruments of sensation and motion. When forcibly stricken from the mind by music’s numbers, they fly to all regions of the body, where they retain the same motion they received from the mind and pour it instantly into the fibers of all parts.85 Bacon explains in eloquent detail that music, the most complicated object of the sense of hearing, attained such effects on the human temperament by its superior interaction with the body’s internal spirits. The contrasting emotional responses of a Jessica or of Case’s cases are to be expected because there are many kinds of music. In addition, music sympathetically intensifies the inherent character of the resident spirits, a point also emphasized by Wright.86 “It hath been anciently held, and observed, that the Sense of Hearing, and the Kinds of Musick, have most Operation upon Manners,” says Bacon. He continues, As to Incourage Men, and make them warlike; To make them Soft and Effeminate; To make them Grave; To make them Light; To make them Gentle and inclined to Pitty, &c. The Cause is, for that the Sense of Hearing striketh the Spirits more immediatly, than the other Senses; And more incorporeally then the Smelling. . . . But Harmony entring easily, and Mingling not at all, and Comming with a manifest Motion; doth by Custome of often Affecting the Spirits . . . alter not a little the Nature of the Spirits, even when the Object is removed. . . . We see also that severall Aires, and Tunes, doe please severall Nations, and Persons, according to the Sympathy they have with their Spirits.87

What exactly were these spirits, and how did they perform their work? Fundamentally, as Case and Bacon especially make clear, they were mobile, incorporeal entities capable of mediation between the sensible world and such ethereal phenomena as the mind or soul. Donne reiterates simply that within the human organism, “our spirits . . . do fit this body, and soule for one

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  195

anothers working.” But he goes on to show in ever-­widening contexts that they were much more, from the active component of the blood to the Holy Ghost.88 Although there was a certain amount of debate among sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century physicians, theologians, poets, and philosophers regarding the precise properties, function, and even existence of spirits, most would probably have recognized Church of England clergyman Thomas Walkington’s (ca. 1575–1621) survey of conventional definitions as well as his particular sense of the term: A Spirit is taken for our breath in respiration as Galen sayth. . . . Tis often among the Poets taken for winde, among the Philosophers for abstract form. . . . In none of these sences we are to take it in this place, but for a subtile pure aery substance in the body of a man, and thus may it be defined: . . . A spirit is a most subtill, aery, and lightsome substance, generated of the purest part of bloud, whereby the soule can easily performe her functions in the naturall body. They have their originall and off-­spring from the heart.89

Such subtle essences were found not only in the human organism but anywhere where materiality intersected with the immaterial. Bacon explains that “there is, in every tangible Body, a Spirit, or body Pneumaticall, enclosed, and covered, with Tangible parts,” which needed to be retained to prevent physical dissolution. As we saw in the previous chapter, spirits could even present in noncorporeal form such as demons and elementals. Or they could help connect entities of heaven and earth. Case reiterates that spirit spoke to spirit through nonlinguistic forms, which was how sense data was delivered from the bodily receptors to the interior faculties. The intellectual heirs of Plato and Pythagoras considered spirits musical in nature, and, borrowing from Continental occult philosophy, Ingpen defines sound more generally as a spirit. These properties not only granted music the kind of special status Sydenham and Bacon describe in relation to spirit but, according to Case, enabled it to reach the mind directly with secrets of the celestial harmony it remembered and would know again.90 The concept of spirit took on different shades of meaning according to context. Some of these overlapped in an era during which intellectual inquiry favored the continuous reconfiguration of inherited wisdom, and poets, physicians, philosophers and divines sometimes referenced the same sources from different perspectives. Masters of linguistic subtlety such as Donne shifted for rhetorical effect between frames of reference around the word. There were also multiple points of contact and sometimes confusion

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between the medical spirits diffused throughout the body, philosophical and theological references to incorporeal beings, a class of semicorporeal substances that contributed to cosmic and human materiality, the Stoic and Neoplatonic concept of spiritus as world-­soul, and the Christian meanings of spirit as the divine aspect of the soul or a major component of the Godhead in the form of the Holy Spirit. Even within the human body, in which spirits were subdivided into overlapping categories—including the inbred or natural, the vital, and the animal (from “anima” or soul)—it was difficult to separate them entirely from the internal organs, the humors, the soul, or the influence of astral bodies. If spirits enlivened the body and carried messages between it and the soul in the “lesser world” that was the human being, their analogues in the greater cosmos comprised the very stars and served as the direct medium of transmission between celestial and earthbound bodies.91 The medical-­alchemical, natural philosophical concept of a “spirit of life” added further resonance to the macrocosm-­microcosm analogy implicit in the spiritual web between heaven and earth and that we have already seen as central to musical and occult thought.92 Many of these distinctive filaments are woven together in theologian and Cambridge Platonist Henry More’s (1614–1687) highly syncretic tract on the human soul. He, too, emphasizes that there are multiple sorts of spirit that share certain commonalities. However, he offers a general definition to cover all cases: The greatest and grossest obstacle to the belief of the Immortality of the Soul, is that confident opinion in some, as if the very notion of A Spirit were a piece of Non-­sense and perfect Incongruity in the conception thereof. Wherefore . . . that it may appear to all, how unjust that cavill is against Incorporeall substances, as if they were meer Impossibilities and contradictious Inconsistencies. I will define therefore A Spirit in generall thus, A substance penetrable and indiscerp[t]ible.93

Furthermore, he adds, after a lengthy discussion of the infinite, spiritual Godhead, We have done with the notion of that Infinite and Uncreated Spirit we usually call God; we come now to those that are Created and Finite, as the Spirits of Angels, Men, and Brutes. . . . The Properties of a Spirit, as it is a notion common to all these, I have already enumerated. . . . We may therefore define this kind of Spirit we speak of, to be A substance Indiscerp[t]ible, that can

To Please the Ear and Satisfy the Mind  197

move itself, that can penetrate, contract, and dilate it self, and can also penetrate, move, and alter the matter.94

The linguistic and conceptual similarities between More’s definition and many of his era’s descriptions of music are striking. Music, too, was a diffuse, kinetic intangible with finite and infinite aspects that could penetrate and move other entities. It was also of several kinds, the most indiscerptible of which originated with that infinite and uncreated Spirit who had in turn used it in the act of creation. More’s choice of defining words only enhances the idea that sound was itself a spirit, an attitude shared by many nontechnological cultures past and present.95 In the early modern era, there was a close and occasionally ambiguous relationship between the natures of sound, spirit, air, and music. On ancient authority by which the senses were connected in a system of correspondence to the four elements, air was not only the choice medium of sound but the essence of hearing. So it was of breath, and increasingly of song and instrumental music. Air, endowed with its own vitality, was the component stuff of spirit, and the sensitive soul further enlivened the surrounding air that conveyed sensory messages to it through bodily spirits. The most refined of these, vital and animal, were formed and conditioned by air breathed into the body, mixed with the blood, and exhaled to purge impurities. Around the time Shakespeare used the term air in The Merchant of Venice to signify audible music that moved the spirits of living things, Morley and Dowland brought the word into the English lexicon to indicate light, tuneful songs other than madrigals.96 Sound more generally, that undulation of air caused by motion, was equally capable of penetrating the ear and diffusing through the body. Crooke explains that a man whose ears have been cut off can still hear “because the principal instrument of Hearing . . . lies hid within the soul.”97 Music and other aural messages therefore had direct access and multiple similitudes to the intermediaries that carried sensation to the soul. All were corresponding forms of animate air, and ambient air brought them into contact. Agrippa explains, with echoes of Ficino, that Though sound cannot be made without Air, yet is not sound of the nature of Air, nor air of the nature of sound, but air is the body of the life of the sensitive spirit, and is not of the nature of an sensible object, but of a more simple and higher vertue: but it is meet that the sensitive soul should vivifie the air joyned to it and in the vivificated air, which is joyned to the spirit perceives the species of the object put forth into act, and this is done in the living air.98

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In a 1643 treatise on melancholy included among his “sundry Petitions, Remonstrances and Letters” to Charles I in favor of “a speedy and happy Reformation of abuses in Church government,” Reformist John Spencer (1601– 1671) summarizes the substance, function, and pathways of the three subspecies of bodily spirits by which the soul worked. “Concerning spirits,” he begins, they are a thin, aieriall vapours substance, the chief instruments which our soul worketh withal, those which be inplanted and fixed in our solid partes from our first generation, be the seat of our native heat and the bond of soul and body: those which be after added to the former, are first natural in the liver conveied in the vains to the habit of the body, secondly made vital in the left cavity of the heart, partly of the natural spirit and partly of the air which we suck in, and runneth by the Arteryes through the whole body. Thirdly, Animal, made of the vitals of the braine thence diffused by the sinews into the body stirring up sense and motion therein.99

Although there was a certain amount of disagreement about which form of this airy, vaporous substance was generated in what organ by admixture of innate and inhaled air, a dominant body of medical and natural philosophical thought held that the heart was a central point of transfer on its route between sense and soul. By some reckoning, the sensing part of the latter also resided or was concentrated here, where it mingled with other airy entities. Animal and vital spirits, too, congregated around the heart if they did not arise from it. Messages were relayed by spirits from the cavities or ventricles of this supple center of the body to and from the ear and other sense organs. These spirit-­borne messages passed through the blood, nerves, veins, arteries, brain, muscles, and eventually the mind or soul, which they vicariously enabled “as if it were in Thessalia[n] temple of delight” to experience what Walkington describes as “all pleasures that might feast and delight the senses.”100 On this basis, music that courted the ear would necessarily strike the heart on its path to satisfy (or perhaps perturb) the mind or soul. So stricken, the heart was literally impressed, prepared to convey its altered state to the rest of the organism. Robert Burton unifies a pair of contrasting theories regarding the nature of musical affect and seat of the soul to explain that the art “is so powerful a thing, that it ravisheth the soul, regina sensuum, the Queene of the senses . . . because the spirits about the heart, take in that trembling and

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dancing aire into the body, are moved together and stirred up with it, or else the mind as some suppose, harmonically composed, is roused up at the tunes of musicke.”101 For Burton, then, the airy nature of music moved the body and loosed the soul. Alternatively, as Case suggests, it reached the mind directly through similitude and memory of its origins. Burton’s nearly exact contemporary and fellow Oxford man George Sandys (1578–1644) is less equivocal about the role of the heart in dispersing the spirits and enabling them to be stirred enough by music to effect systemic change. He also acknowledges, like Bacon, that the sense of hearing strikes the spirits more immediately than do the other four, and that different kinds of music cause different reactions. For Sandys, the heart serves as the physiological mechanism by which music affects the human organism via sympathetically modified spirits. “Musicke in it selfe most strangely works upon our humane affections,” he explains, because the Spirits which agitate in the heart, receave a warbling and dancing aire into the bosome, and are made one with the same where they have an affinity; whose motions lead to the rest of the Spirits dispersed through the body, raising or suppressing the instrumental parts according to the measures of the Musick: sometimes inflaming and againe composing the affections the sence of hearing stricking the Spirits more immediately, then the rest of the sences.102

“As the heart ruleth over all the members: so Musicke overcommeth the heart,” sums up a commonplace of “Musick.”103 This chain reaction by which audible music altered the hearer’s entire somatic system step-­by-­step from ear to heart to soul began in the sounding object. Vitalized air resonated with the same transmitted from one body to another, bringing the pair through sympathy to concord or elevating the recipient even further through the kind of ravishment Chapman describes. Practical acoustics and the occult philosophical heritage of Ficino and his successors repeatedly demonstrated the pathway from sound through motion to conformity between musical object and responsive subject. Acoustics found its evidence in the sympathetic vibration between musical instruments, known since antiquity and well loved by seventeenth-­century experimenters and emblematists. Such was even occasionally referenced in the titles and use of repeated motives or phrases in compositions for multiple instruments of the same sort, such as Hume’s “Spirit of Gambo.”104 Ficino and his followers built on the Pythagorean-­Platonic heritage to emphasize that vocal

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song was warm, living spirit matter that carried meaning like a mind. The stricken spirits of the recipient reacted to the trembling, dancing air of music that reached them from a resounding natural or artificial body and, if there was affinity between them, were made the same. This principle not only enabled the intimate bond between well-­tuned ensemble performers or performer and audience but also self-­therapy through solo instrumental practice. As part of his “Experiments in Consort, touching the Sympathy or Antipathy of Sounds, one with another,” Bacon points out that “All Concords and Discords of Musicke, are (no doubt,) Sympathies and Antipathies of Sounds.” By way of illustration he adds that There is a Common Observation, that if a Lute or Viall [viol], be laid upon the Backe with a small straw upon one of the Strings; and another Lute or Vial be laid by it; And in the other Lute or Viall the Unison to that string be stricken, it will make the String move; Which will appear both to the Eye, and by the Strawes falling off. The like will be if the Diapason or Eight [octave] to that String be strucken, either in the same Lute or Viall, or in others lying by. . . . The Experiment of Sympathy may be transferred (perhaps) from Instruments of Strings, to other Instruments of Sound.105

Digby and Peacham the Younger cite similar observations and use musical instruments to illustrate occult sympathy or other secrets of nature. Digby traces to Galileo the explanation for why a lute or harp “set to the same tune” as another nearby will sound in consonance “though no body touch it.” As an illustration of “The strange effects and properties of Musicall proportions,” Peacham rhetorically asks why, when “two Lutes of equall size being laid upon a table, and tuned Unison, or alike . . . the one stricken, the other untouched shall answer it?” Porta uses as his example of the same phenomenon “A Harp that is play’d on, will move another Harp strung to the same height.” He traces this easily verifiable pronouncement back to ancient Roman historian Suetonius and similarly demonstrates how “any ignorant man may tune a Harp, if one Harp be rightly tuned for Musik, and lye still, he by stretching the strings of the other, and by slackning them, and striking as the string of the Harp that lyes still guides him.”106 Through analogical reasoning, this response of one tuned body to another by means of airy spirit was not far from the trope of divine tuning of the world-­instrument or individual bodies in the heavens or on earth. By reflection between the physical and the metaphysical, any body was an instrument, any airy medium its animating principle:

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And yet the body’s but the Instrument Whereon the soule doth play what she doth please, But if the stringes thereof doe not concent The harmony doth but the soule displease; Then tune the body Soule, or playing cease

writes poet John Davies of Hereford (1564/65–1618). He explains in a footnote that “The Soule worketh by motion, and the body by Action,” another similarity between sound, soul, and spirit intermediaries.107 A widespread Continental emblematic tradition of the seventeenth century illustrated such metaphysical tuning not by occulted hands turning hidden pegs but by the physicality of sympathetic vibration from instrument to instrument. Such images analogized not only how the body (or sometimes specifically heartstrings) responded to the soul but also the soul to divinity, humans to God, and lover to lover. Each of these metaphors for concord at the unison involved airy motion when bodies did not touch and reinforces the definition Sydenham gives to sympathy (Sympathia): “a natural correspondence and relation between our diviner parts and harmony, for such is the nature of our soules that Musicke hath a certeine proportionable Sympathie with them.”108 Sympathy was thus demonstrable by way of practical music as both a cosmological and emotive force spanning from the heavens through the mysteries of human interiority. The human, natural, and celestial realms were capable of reflecting this virtue, too, within and between each other.109 Jacob Cats’s pervasive and influential emblem “Quid non sentit amor” (What cannot Love sense?), originally printed in 1618, makes allegorical use of that common experiment concerning sympathy between two instruments (fig. 4.2). The picture beneath the motto shows a bearded lutenist with starched ruff, a gentleman of the class of Bacon, Digby, Peacham, or Galileo, seated at a table while tuning the lowest string of his instrument. A second lute of equal size lies parallel to his on the table, a straw woven through its corresponding strings already bent in vibration. The neck of the untouched instrument points out a window toward two couples strolling in a formal garden. Beside them, the reflection of a hedge and stand of trees in a rectangular pool reinforces the theme of transmission and rebound between one body and another. The viewer is thus directed to transfer the concept of sympathetic sound to the hidden process of spirit within and between living bodies: what cannot Love sense (through vivified air between sensitive soul and sensible object)? The same motto and metaphor transferred to sacred context between divinity and the soul. “Such is the agreement of lovers,” explains one

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Figure 4.2 Emblem “Quid non sentit amor” (What Cannot Love Sense?). Jacob Cats, Proteus ofte Minnebeelden ([Rotterdam: Pieter van Waesberge, 1627]), p. 254. Call # STC 4863.5. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

epigram for “Quid non sentit amor?,” “that it makes a single note of two descants.”110 Digby cites the commonplace example of two instruments in sympathy as a way to explain fetal development as the mother’s spirits guide her gestating son’s mind and body. “Now, to make application to our purpose of all that hath been produced to this effect” of an unplayed lute or harp sounding untouched in response to a nearby one played, he continues,

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since it is impossible that two severall persons should be so near one another, as the mother and the infant when he lies in the womb, one may thence conclude, That all the effects of a strong and vehement imagination working upon another more feeble, passive, and tender, ought to be more efficacious in the Mother acting upon her son, then when the imaginations of other persons act upon them who are nothing to them. And as it is impossible for a Master of Musick, let him be never so expert, and exact, can tune so perfecty any two Harps, as the great Master of the Universe, doth the two bodies of the Mother and the Infant, so it follows by consequence, that the concussion of the principal consonant string in the Infant, to wit, his imagination, then the string of a Lute being touched, upon the consonant strings of another: and when the mother sends spirits to some part of her body, the like must be sent to some part of the child’s body.111

For metaphysical poet Katherine Philips (1632–1664), the response of one untouched viol to the vibrating string of another merges with metaphors of the body as instrument, heartstrings that could be played or tuned, sympathy between passionate friends or lovers, and the affective power of the human voice. Two stanzas of her lengthy poem “To my Lucasia, in defense of declared friendship,” state, But as the Morning-­Sun to drooping Flowers, As weary Travellers a Shade do find, As to the parched Violet Evening-­showers, Such is from thee to me a Look that’s kind. But when that look is dress’d in words, ’tis like The mystique power of musick’s Unison; Which when the finger does one Violl strike, The other’s string heaves to reflection.112

In Philips’s verse, secret sympathy between similar instruments, one acting on the other by way of a stricken string, is likened to the poetic subject receiving an amiable look plus welcome words from her beloved Lucasia. Katherine is but an instrument tuned in response to another with which she has affinity. It is Lucasia’s voice, the intangible life of sensitive spirit, that sets off the reaction that ends in metaphorical concord at the unison. “This only thing seems to render the voice of Man the most gratefull of all other sounds,” says René Descartes in an English translation of his compendium of music

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from Philips’s heyday, “that it holds the greatest conformity to our spirits. Thus also is the voice of a Friend more gratefull then [sic] of an Enemy, from a sympathy and dipathy of Affections.”113 The human voice, arising from a living body and potentially conforming to the spirits of another, possessed affective power beyond any artificial instrument. The body was no mere hollow vivified by air produced through human agency. It possessed its own consciousness, soul, and vital and animal spirits to convey internal and external messages. It had its own heart and mind. All of these could be modified by music or the speaking voice, especially the warm, vibrant intelligence that was vocal song. Thus was the singer (or performance patron) granted extraordinary power over others. The unknown author of the 1680 practical treatise Synopsis of Vocal Music states that “Vocal Musick is an Art of expressing rightly things by Voice, for the sweet moving of the affections of the mind. . . . For exhiliarating the animal spirits, it moderateth gratefully the affections, and this penetrateth the interiours of the mind, which it most pleasantly doth affect.”114 According to Agrippa, this all-­encompassing process involved multiple intermediaries. These included not only spirit, heart, and affections of the mind but the entire cognitive framework. Specifically, Agrippa explains that song does more than any instrument, because it moves from the conceite of the [singer’s] minde, and imperious affection of the phantasie and heart, easily penetrateth by motion, with the refracted and well tempered Air, the aerous spirit of the hearer, which is the bond of soul and body; and transferring the affection and minde of the Singer with it, It moveth the affection of the hearer by his affection, and the hearers phantasie by his phantasie, and minde by his minde, and striketh the minde, and striketh the heart, and pierceth even to the inwards of the soul, and by little and little, infuseth even dispositions: moreover it moveth and stoppeth the members and humors of the body. From hence in moving the affections harmony conferreth so much, that not only natural, but also artificial [i.e., instrumental] and vocal Harmony doth yield a certain power to bothe souls and bodies.115

For Agrippa, the path from sense to soul begins with infusion of the singer’s cognitive-­affective apparatus into his or her voice. As from string to string and resonator to resonator between similar instruments, what originates in the singer’s body passes through successive forms of air and into another—heart to heart, affection to affection, and mind to mind—until it perfuses the re-

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cipient’s somatic system. It becomes sympathy so strong that, like any instrument, the responsive listener is brought involuntarily to unison resonance. For most of the early modern era, the only way interior faculties knew the world was by sense data processed through the sort of network Agrippa describes. There was no consensus about its nature or composition, but where there was harmony, motion, or temporal process, music served as explanatory tool. Ingpen, in fact, considers the faculties of understanding to be “intellectual musick” consisting of “Minde, imagination, memory, cogitation, opinion, reason, [and] knowledge.” This reflects his sevenfold division of “harmonicall musick,” the sort composed, performed, and sensed, and is but one of many ways of categorizing cognizance.116 The early modern era had inherited not only five external senses and multiply tangled ideas about spirit and soul but also a set of inner senses beginning with the common that stood at the gateway between the inner and outer self. By the mid-­ seventeenth century, especially under Cartesian revisionism (which further distanced consciousness from the material body), this heritage had begun to break down. But it still held for most of the period. Basically, on Aristotelian heritage filtered through successive Galenic, medieval Arabic, and Scholastic revisionists, there was a set of inner senses, most often three or five, tasked with interpreting and translating external data for the sensitive soul: common sense, fantasy, imagination, estimation, cogitation, and/or memory. Higher functions of understanding, such as those referenced by Ingpen, were further removed from sensation; these belonged to the intellective rather than the sensitive soul. Usually assisted by spirit, the inner senses processed information from external organs as it moved inward and made physical changes on the site of contact and then throughout the body. By the early modern era, these inner senses were mostly located in the brain, proximate to the organ of hearing and therefore a privileged site of access for acoustic data. The brain was also a major hub and possibly origin point for the higher spirits, animal and vital. By some reckoning it was the physiological seat of the sensitive soul from which the spirits were not entirely distinguished since they performed its offices within the body. Some thinkers, however, still assigned these intellectual faculties to the heart, where Aristotle had situated them. Wherever located and however divided, the basic process was that each of the inner senses served as a successive clearinghouse for information delivered from the five outer ones: initial reception into the common sense, assessment in the fantasy and imagination and estimation and cogitation, and on to storage in memory. In this way, from the outside in, the soul came to know the world.117 The most widely circulating and influential early modern representation of

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Figure 4.3 “De potentiis anime sensitive” (Of the powers of the sensitive [i.e., sensing] soul). Gregor Reisch, Margarita Philosophica ([Basil: Michael Futerius,] 1517), n.p. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

this process “Of the Powers of the Sensitive Soul” was rendered before 1500 by German Carthusian Gregor Reisch (fig. 4.3). It was first printed in a general compendium of knowledge in 1503 and adapted for readers of an English vernacular treatise on surgery in 1525.118 Here we see the pathway from sense receptors through each of the three recognized ventricles of the brain: common sense followed by fantasy and imagination in the anterior, cogitation and estimation in the middle, and memory in the posterior. The first two ventricles are connected by the vermis, a passage that regulated the flow of animal spirit to prevent the second one from becoming overwhelmed by a rush of data. The diagram reinforces the proximity of four sense receptors, espe-

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cially the ear (which visually dominates the others), to the brain. The image also serves as a graphic reminder that especially beyond the reception space of the common sense, the faculties of judgment were removed from lived experience. They bridged the gap between knowledge of sensible particulars and the highest processes of intellection that dealt with universals.119 If the common sense was the site of implant, synesthesia, and sorting of jumbled sense data, the imagination and fantasy (fantasia, fantazia, fancy, phantasy) served as the initial processor(s) of impressions freed from the physical world. These two faculties were closely connected and sometimes referenced interchangeably. Whatever called and whether unified under either name or bifurcated as Reisch shows, the main function of these principal strings in the instrument that was the human organism and that could so easily resonate with another’s or be moved by music alone, was to translate incoming data from the common sense into recognizable form before passing it to the most refined cognitive faculties. French theologian Nicolas Coeffeteau (1574–1623) explains in Edward Grimeston’s translation that sense data were carried by the spirits to the first of these internal faculties, at which point they were judged, processed, and distributed throughout the entire body: The objects of the senses strike first upon the imagination, and then this power . . . conceives them as good or bad, as pleasing or troublesome, and importune . . . which . . . excites the concupiscible, or irascible powers of the soule, and induceth them to imbrace or flye them, and by the impression of its motion, agitates the spirits which we call Vitall, the which going from the heart, disperse themselves throughout the whole body, and at the same instant the blood . . . participating in this agitatio[n], flowes throughout the veynes, and casts it selfe over all other parts of the body.120

The imagination and fantasy—as outlined by Aristotle and adapted by such later Arabic and European thinkers as al-­Kindi, Avicenna, Averroes, Ficino, and Bruno—set sensible objects before the intellect and enable emotional response to external stimuli. Every sensory message or fleeting impression to reach the soul had to be transposed into an interior sequence of phantasms that had primacy over rational language and external signals, just as the soul had primacy over the body and its capacities to speak and feel. Imagination and fantasy provided this service, and it was only through them that the incommensurate languages of body and soul could become mutually comprehensible.121 But there were still a few flaws in the system. Technically, imagination stored the images received from common sense impressions, while

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fantasy divided and recombined them into new ones independent of bodily experience and the physical world. By some accounts, this was the highest creative power of human cogitation, enabling conception of things beyond corporeality as well as true understanding of sensible objects and processes. “Why, man, I have been borne upon the spirits wings / The soules swift Pegasus, the fantasie,” brags a minor character in Marston’s Antonio and Mellida, “And from the height of contemplation, / Have view’d the feeble joynts men totter on.”122 Fantasy was thus the gateway for internal mental states midway between perception and thought, though some writers, including Digby and Fludd, attributed this active, creative capacity to the storehouse of imagination. Nothing by any name could reach the inner mind or soul without passing through it. For Fludd and other occult philosophers, the imaginative faculty received external impressions not only by way of common sense but directly from the higher, more refined imaginal world that included the realms of divinity (fig. 4.4). However, the human mind could not differentiate directly between external sensory information and dreamlike data because both were transmitted in the same fragmentary, impressionistic form. The faculty’s capacity for shaping and refining impressions from absent entities could also create ones that did not exist externally. The English vernacular term fantasy or fancy was already conflated with imagination and associated with hallucinations, desires, and delusions by the later Middle Ages.123 By way of this “soules swift Pegasus,” dreamlike passions of any origin could become as real and physically affective as sensory events. “Natural dreames are they which represent the passions of the soule and body, the imaginations of such dreames come to passe, either by reason of outward causes, or inward,” explains Vaughan.124 Du Laurens reminds readers that the imaginative faculties, including fantasy, often miscommunicated data sent by sense. Thus, it sometimes relayed erroneous information to the mind: The imaginative facultie doth represent and set before the intellectual, all the objects which she hath received from the common sence, making report of whatsoever is discovered of the spies abroad [the senses]: upon which reports the intellectuall or understanding part of the minde, frameth her conclusions, which are very often false, the imagination making untrue reports.125

Therefore, the imaginative faculties possessed dreamy, subjective qualities that could be imposed independently on the intellect. Unlike the external senses, the imaginative ones never ceased or changed their work. They continued to operate even in dreams. “The imaginations, which depend onely on

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Figure 4.4 Mental faculties, including sensation and Imagination. Robert Fludd, Tomus secundus de supernaturali, naturali, praeternaturali et conotranaturali (Openhemii: Johannes Theodor de Bry, 1621), p. 217. Wellcome Collection, London. Used under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

the accidental motions of the spirits, may be as reall Passions,” says Descartes in a work originally written for Princess Elisabeth of Bohemia, daughter of Elizabeth Stuart: “So oftentimes when one sleeps, and sometimes too being awake, a man fancies things so strongly that he thinkes he sees them before him, or feels them in his body, though there be no such thing.” Imagination and fantasy thus had the power to command the motions, affections, passions, and perturbations of the mind just like the operation of sensory stimuli

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on the spirits. Some even debated on long-­standing authority whether change could be produced in the human body through the projected phantasms of another mind or whether the imaginative faculties could, under certain circumstances, convert into an independent spirit.126 This wondrous imaginative faculty was, in turn, closely related to memory, to which it stood in physical proximity in the medieval and early modern brain. According to followers of Aristotle’s De Anima, when sensory perception was processed through imagination and fantasy and relayed in phantasmic images to the intellect, the new information might be retained as memory. Memory and imagination were essentially past and present of the same concept arising from the motion of spirits through designated pathways within the human body. Spirits were thus phantasmically linked to memory as well as to perception and imagination.127 Du Laurens adds that reason, an aspect of the mental faculty to which imagination delivered its information, committed conceits of the mind to memory for storage. For here had learning, past events, and treasures of the soul been placed since the world began: Finally, reason having thus swiftly conveyed her selfe to take the view of whatsoever is, and having discovered and conceived a million of goodly and pleasant formes, being unable any longer to retaine them, committeth them to the custodie of memorie, which is her faithfull secretarie, and wherein, as in a place of greatest trustines to keep the same, the most precious treasures of the soule are placed. This is that rich treasure, which incloseth within one only inner roome all the sciences, and what else soever hath passed since the creation of the world, which lodgeth every thing in his severall place.128

Sound and music, as ephemeral and penetrating as any airy spirit, were closely tied by numerous thinkers of the early modern era to the imaginative faculties as well as to memory. Shakespeare’s Mercutio reminds us that “phantasie . . . is as thin of substance as the ayre,” connecting all such airous entities.129 The actual organ of hearing was by many accounts the inbred air or spirit within the ear, making it a gateway to imagination. Agrippa considers music, especially in an astrological context, to be “a most powerful imaginer of all things,” endowing it with the same kind of direct influence on mind and soul as interior sense or any sort of phantasm.130 As we have seen, one of the most powerful objections to music outlined by Mulcaster is its excitement of the “forreigne conceites and wandring devises” of fantasy, especially implicitly erotic imaginings. Ravenscroft not only ties music to memory but, consistent with the nonlinguistic nature of phantasmic communication

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within and through the imagination, mentions that music makes poems more willingly heard and better remembered. Descartes explains simply that imagination helps us to perceive all parts of music and to take delight in it.131 The late seventeenth-­century English mathematician John Wallis (1616–1703) assures his readers that the reverse is equally true: Musicke Operates on our Fancies, Affections, Passions, Motions, &c, and not ours only, but of other Animals. . . . I say, if this were the Question, I must, in answer to it, have discoursed of the Nature of Sounds, produced by some Subtile Motions of the Air, propagated and continued to the Ear and Organs of Hearing, and thence communicated to the Animal Spirits: which excite suitable Imaginations, Affections, Passions, &c. And these attended with the conformable Motions and Actions, and according to the various Proportions, Measures, and Mixtures of such Sounds there do arise various Effects in the Mind or Imagination, suitable thereunto.132

Church of England clergyman and natural philosopher William Holder (1615/16–1698), Wallis’s almost exact contemporary, explains that such wonderful effects result from the attack on the listener’s fantasy made by specific musical genres. These effects are rooted in the unheard natural and numerically proportionate bases of harmony. They could be enhanced by a composer’s use of sharp and flat (i.e., major and minor) keys that, respectively, dilate and rouse, or contract and damp, the spirits to produce affective change: I do not intend to meddle with the Artificial Part of Musick: The Art of Composing, and the Metrical and Rhythmical Parts which give the infinite Variety of Air and Humor, and indeed the very Life to Harmony . . . and by which chiefly the wonderfull Effects of Musick are performed, and the Kinds of Air distingushed; As, Almand, Corant, Jigg, &c. which variously attack the Fancy of the Hearers; some with Sprightfulness, some with Sadness, and others a middle way. Which is also improved by the Differences of those we call Flat, or Sharp Keys; The Sharp . . . are more Brisk and Airy; and being assisted with Choice of Measures last spoken of, do Dilate the Spirits, and Rouze them up to Gallantry, and Magnanimity. The Flat, consisting of all the less Intervals, contract and damp the Spirits, and produce Sadness and Melancholy. Lastly, A mixture of these, with a suitable Rhythmus, gently fix the Spirits, and compose them in a middle Way.133

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That artificial part of music, composition, had been associated with fantasy long before Holder’s and Wallis’s day. By the end of the sixteenth century, the term and its derivatives were applied in England to original music free from borrowed material and rigid generic patterns on the order of an “Almand, Corant, Jigg, &c.” It suggested sympathy with the freely mobile affections, passions, and airy spirits of its listeners and creators. Ayeres or Phantasticke Spirites for three voices proclaims the title of a 1608 collection of highly varied madrigalian compositions by Thomas Weelkes. This designation suggests similitude with, if not activation of, the spirits moving between voice, air, ear, and fantasy. The collection’s contents range from light canzonets to somber madrigals, including the composer’s eulogy for his friend Thomas Morley. However, Weelkes does not explain the title and only briefly mentions related processes in a conventional praise of the dedicatee, Lord Edward Denny, Baron of Waltham (1569–1637): “in the nature of Artes and generous spirites, ther is a sympathie.”134 The previous year, Tobias Hume had introduced his boldly original collection of Poeticall Musicke for viols as his “owne Phancies expressed by [his] proper Genius.” The contents, he explains, were free from borrowed material, “farre from servile imitations,” and for an instrument best able to unite cerebral and affective pleasures through “parts, Passion and Division.”135 More influentially and not far from Hume’s use, the term fantasy ( fancy[e], fantasia, fantazia, phantasy, etc.) was applied to one of the most important instrumental genres of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, created for solo strings and keyboard as well as consorts of instruments. Even its name—borrowed from the imaginative faculty associated with fragmentary, subjective, dreamlike stimuli and states independent of the physical world—suggests creative liberty, subjective interiority, and absence of a single defining stylistic feature. Theoretically, and in some of the most striking examples, a single fantasy moves through “various proportions, measures, and mixtures of sounds” to give seemingly “infinite variety of air and humor.”136 More than any other genre, the fantasy, free from constraints of text or preexisting models of dance or song forms, enabled composers and performers to show off a wide range of techniques. The earliest definition in an English musical source, provided by Morley in 1597 and based on earlier Continental use, already presents the fantasy as an abstract instrumental genre limited only by compositional ingenuity: The most principall and chiefest kind of musicke which is made without a dittie is the fantasie, that is, when a musician taketh a point at his pleasure, and wresteth and turneth it as he list, making either much or little of it according

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as shall seeme best in his own conceit. In this may more art be showne then in any other musicke, because the composer is tide to nothing but that he may adde, deminish, and alter at his pleasure. And this kind will beare any allowances whatsoeuer tolerable in other musick, except changing the ayre & leaving the key, which in fantasie may neuer bee suffered. Other thinges you may use at your pleasure, as bindings with discordes, quicke motions, slow motions, proportions, and what you list. Likewise, this kind of musick is with them who practise instruments of parts in greatest use, but for voices it is but sildome used.137

Simpson’s Compendium of Practical Musick, first printed in 1667 and going through successive editions well into the eighteenth century, builds on Morley’s definition to foreground compositional artifice and inventiveness, but with new emphasis on fugal counterpoint. By Simpson’s era, the fantasy (“fancy”) was only written for instruments, most often viols: We must now speak a little more of Musick made for Instruments. . . . Of this kind, the chief and most excellent, for Art and Contrivance, are Fancies, of 6, 5, 4, and 3 Parts, intended commonly for Viols. In this sort of Musick the Composer (being not limited to words) doth imploy all his Art and Invention solely about the bringning in and carrying on of these Fuges, according to the Order and Method formerly shewed. When he has tried all the several ways which he thinks fit to be used therein, he takes some other Point, and does the like with it: or else, for variety, introduces some Chromatick Notes, with Bindings and Intermixtures of Discords; or, falls into some lighter Humour like a Madrigal, or what else his own fancy shall lead him to: but still concluding with something which hath Art and Excellency in it.

Simpson classifies this genre as elite connoisseur’s music composed by contemporary “Doctors and Batchelors in Musick” as well as similarly credentialed luminaries of earlier generations. By the late seventeenth century, he laments that it had become “much neglected, by reason of the scarcity of Auditors that understand it: their Ears being better acquainted and more delighted with light and airy Musick.”138 At century’s end, Roger North refers to such works as “the old English Fancys,” fallen out of favor by descent from “sprightlyness and variety” into “a perpetuall grave cours of fuge.” James Grassineau’s Musical Dictionary . . . Including the Historical, Theoretical, and Practical Parts of Music of 1740 retrospectively defines Fantasia or Fancy as

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“A sort of composition wherein the composer tyes himself to no particular time, but ranges according as his fancy leads. . . . This is otherwise called the capricious style.”139 Thus, the genre remained more successful and more widely appreciated when marked by the freedoms inherent in its name; its successor, the capriccio, also connoted an intellect free from both physicality and predictability. Morley’s descriptive words for the fantasy of his era suggest the same individualized phantasmic conceit described by Coffeteau, Du Laurens, or Vaughan as the inner language of the mind or the subjective, almost voyeuristic suprasensual pleasure praised by Walkington. Simpson’s later evaluation presents a genre with more precise compositional artifice, still limited only by the composer’s individual fancy. Such a piece of music, full of the expressive pleasure of the creator’s imagination, is thus the literal rendering of a “harmonicall fantasie” and perhaps provided a practical means of calming or exciting the spirits of auditor or performer through sympathy. By omitting words with their specific intellectual content, such music suggests, imitates, or perhaps, because of its very nature as airy spirit, even modifies the interior fantasy of the listener or listener-­performer. As Bacon points out, music lingered in the spirits after sound has ceased.140 By doing as he (or she) likes with newly invented thematic material, the composer constructs the piece from phantasmic musical motives free of linguistic meaning introduced, broken down, recombined, or processed in unexpected ways as long as the most basic rules of part writing are not violated. The fact that many fantasies for consort either begin with, or include, imitative if not canonic motives passed between performers would presumably not have been lost on those from the classes involved in acoustic experiments or familiar with metaphysical tropes concerning sympathetic response. For the fantasy was truly music for elite connoisseurs and rigorously trained composers and, like much early modern English instrumental music, circulated more widely in manuscript than print.141 The opening of Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, first performed not long after Morley’s treatise went into its second edition, opens with a verbal-­musical evocation of the kind of dreamlike, subjective state associated with imaginative processes, especially the sort that enable a man to fancy things so strongly he experiences them as real. Orsino’s lines begin with a command for his musicians to “play on,” suggesting that action had commenced with textless instrumental music. Lacking the specificity of words, such would simply attack the fancy of the hearer or move the spirits “according to the various Proportions, Measures, and Mixtures of such Sounds.”142 Orsino’s introductory words, delivered over or between phrases of music, guide the audience

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to connect the art to love. But his waking reverie does not suggest the intense erotic urge linked to unities of sight and touch with associated priapism. Instead, the character synesthetically connects music to taste, merging the two most invasive senses from the top and bottom of the sensory hierarchy as means to paradoxically enhance and eliminate one immoderate passion. As he guides audience response, Orsino reveals how deeply he is letting himself be moved from both outside and inside his body as the vivified air invades and he chooses to attend to the music: If Musicke be the food of Love, play on, Giue me excesse of it: that surfetting, The appetite may sicken, and so dye.143

As Orsino continues, so does the music. His narration of its passage suggests repetition, memory, and a piece with multiple contrasting sections such as the kind of fantasy or theme-­and-­variations form an actual connoisseur of his class might be expected to enjoy outside of the theater. Such multiphrase construction further suggests successive aural fragments, removed like phantasmic images from linguistic specificity. As Orsino hears a phrase or motive with downward motion—presumably damping all experienced listeners’ spirits toward sadness and melancholy—his narrative audiogustatory synesthesia shifts to audio-­olfactory with hints of the visual and tactile. It is as if incoming sense impressions and memories are being scrambled as they come into the kind of interior contact that could only take place in the imaginative faculties: That straine agen, it had a dying fall: O, it came ore my eare, like the sweet sound That breathes vpon a banke of Violets; Stealing, and giving Odour.

As the musical material changes yet again, Orsino loses engagement with it and orders it to cease; perhaps it no longer feeds the disposition of his spirits. He ends his real-­time narration of the piece with a final reference to the sense of taste and a reminder to the listener to hear the entirety retrospectively in relation to love. His—and perhaps through his promoting, the audience’s— spirits presumably continue to circulate even though the (sounding) object has been removed. After a pun on “pitch” as what a ship does on the sea as well as the smallest subunit of melody, he references the subjective fragments that

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feed the fantasy—and, perhaps for the more musically inclined, the carefully shaped building blocks of the genre that shares its name: Enough, no more, ’Tis not so sweet now, as it was before. O spirit of Love, how quicke and fresh art thou, That notwithstanding thy capacitie, Receiveth as the Sea. Nought enters there, Of what validity, and pitch so ere, But falles into abatement, and low price Even in a minute; so full of shapes is fancie, That it alone, is high fantasticall.144

Orsino invites the audience to join his flight up and back down on “the soules swift Pegasus” by means of music. The staging of a concert-­like ritual with separately designated musicians and audience presumes willing surrender of at least part of the listener’s selfhood—to give ear—even vicariously through Orsino and his verbal narration.145 In this case, the audience is brought to share in the progress of music from acoustic sense reception through bodily filters to the mind and at least indirectly enjoy its affective power over the entire human organism.

CHAPTER five

“Comfortable . . . in Sicknes and in Health” Music to Temper Self and Surroundings

In sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century England, a well-­established tradition held music to moderate the human organism from external sense receptors through the moodier, more subjective interior. By extension, the art could also control individual and group emotion as well as bodily comportment. Details and supporting evidence from multiple perspectives and intellectual traditions were reiterated by poets, preachers, scholars, collectors of sententious sayings, and literate musicians both professional and recreational. Even students internalized the powers of music over self and surroundings along with rudiments of performance. One such was a young gentlewoman named Mary Burwell (b. 1654) who, sometime between about 1668 and her marriage in 1672, compiled an instructional manual for the lute on high-­quality folio-­ size paper. Consistent with pedagogical practices of her era, she probably copied from a manuscript belonging to her lute master, who also seems to have corrected her errors and added musical examples in tablature.1 Burwell’s treatise is more than a guide to lute technique, elementary repertory, and fundamentals of practical music. In keeping with what was by then an old-­ fashioned method of facilitating musical discourse as preparative to performance, it includes commonplaces about the antiquity, divinity, and powers of music recast to apply specifically to the lute. Taken collectively from start to finish, this information reiterates the familiar narrative that music (in form of the lute) is of heavenly origin, that it was used in classical and biblical times, that its highest function is to assist Christian contemplation, and that it rebalances every aspect of human selfhood. Fundamentally, it explains that to play the lute is to temper self and surroundings through a divine gift that had 217

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wrought ancient miracles and “had the happiness to be present at the birth of the Incarnate word and that heard the admirable Consort of Musicke which the Angells made.”2 The same capacity also promised more immediate results. Sprinkled among the work’s contents are a few sententiae that make the lute especially appealing to young ladies who might want an edge in a competitive marriage market: proper performance technique shows off the body’s most decorous erogenous zones and enables flirtation, the charming sound overcomes any shortcomings in wealth or beauty, and young bachelors and maidens have made advantageous marriages because of the instrument’s “agreeing harmony.”3 This intersection between the sensuous physicality and metaphysics of music plus the emphasis on the lute’s celestial origins and ability to bridge the temporal and eternal, body and soul, self and other, art and nature, and divine and human realms not only increase the performer’s agency in a universe pulsing with secret energies. They enable the skilled musician to negotiate a more advantageous place in her world by controlling the pathway between bodily action, sense reception, and interior response. In Burwell’s treatise, the lute is no mere medium or metaphor for occult sympathy between bodies, or even, as she transcribed with particular suitability to the gender enjoined to silence and chastity, “a modest interpreter of our thoughts & passions” by which “one may tell another . . . what he hath in his heart.”4 That ingenious instrument constructed “out of dead and dumbe thinges” actually “drawes a Soule that seemes reasonable by the severall thoughts and expression[s] that the skillful Master makes of his Lute on all kinds of matters and Subjects.” So vivified and granted a kind of consciousness, the instrument transforms into “a faithfull, commodious Companion that watcheth amidst darkness[,] and when the whole nature is in Silence it banisheth from it horrour and unquietness by pleasing sounds.”5 Parallel to the physicality of her lute lessons, Burwell presumably understood, as did women of her era, that reading and subsequent transcription of text involved bodily assimilation of material for moral edification. From eye if not also ear to hand to storage in memory, the process was believed to work through the reader-­transcriber’s system as a kind of nourishment for physiological and spiritual well-­being. As with the positive attributes of music, taking physical ownership of written text was understood to moderate bodily urges and unruly passions.6 The words Burwell copied emphasize the capacities of the lute to work through fingers, hand, arm, eye, and especially ear to command every interior organ and finally the (higher, rational Chris-

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tian) soul. The performable music enabled by her lessons could do the same to a listener. “Of all the Artes I know,” copied Burwell, there is none that engages more the Inclination of men than the Lute for ravishing the Soule by the Eare and the Eyes by the swiftnes and neatnes of all the fingers. These two senses being the chiefest Ministers of our Soules it happens that it is imployed in all her faculties and that it is wholly filled with that heavenly pleasure that is most conformed to its nature.7

As with philosophical evaluations of the five senses, eye and ear become paramount in this process; as in erotic verse, the fingers join them in rendering music irresistible. On one hand, this seems a heady power to offer a young as yet unmarried girl in a patriarchal society. On the other, young women of certain social status learned that music encoded the harmony necessary to maintain domestic order when they became wives, mothers, and industrious mistresses of their own households. By teaching control over personal and interpersonal urges, the lute (or any musical skill) prepared a woman for her role as keeper of familial and community concord. Young men of the same social classes internalized similar lessons toward their wider social and political roles.8 The message of what Burwell made her own is that command of the lute and its music enabled command of self and surroundings as well as providing a bridge to heavenly things. More pragmatically, for a young person looking forward to marriage, family, and household governance, the treatise emphasizes the lute as a salve for every sore for performer and audience alike: the instrument and, by extension, music in general serve as powerful medicine to modulate minds and bodies as self- or small-­group therapy. “The Lute is fitt to assuage the passions as Choller, sorrow, and the paines that wee suffer from diseases and hurts, Impatience and hunger it selfe when the bilious humour pricketh the Stomack and causeth in us peevishness and displeasure,” declares the text with clinical efficiency. Here, as Robinson put it in his earlier mass-­market string tutor, music proves itself medical by the range of maladies it cures, from simply physiological to complex psychophysical conditions. It takes the place of food and tempers moody extremes. The text continues analysis of music’s healing pathway through the most important organs and systems between external sensation and self-­awareness. It shows how the art acts directly on the insubstantial, kinetic bodily agents with which it shares similitude as well as the organs in which reside emotionality and consciousness.

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This divine gift of music is self-­adjusting. It provides cooling moisture or targeted fire, it and opens or closes the heart as needed. It nourishes with sweetness, neutralizes venom, and softens what is too hard. It purifies the body’s resident spirits, perfects the soul, and renders negative emotions positive: This heavenly harmony, rising unto the Brain as an intellectual Dew doth moisten gently the heat and drines[s] of it and if there be too much moisture and terrestriall vapours, it dissipates and dryes them by the melodious Activity that produces a Subtile fire[.] So that raryfieng the spirits in purging them of their fuliginous vapours and fixing there extraordinary motion it followeth that this harmony sett aright the faculties of the Soule and perfect them. If the heart be closed it openeth it and if it be too much opened, it gently shutteth it to imbrace and keepe in the sweetness that the Lute inspires into its sensible Concavities[.] It is then that sorrowe is banished from it and if it be strong enough [to] keep possession it is fed with soo favourable a nourishment that it looseth all bitternes and castes out all her Venom. This harmony softens stony hearts and banishes the Cruelty from it to give roome to Compassion[.] [I]t turneth out hatred to lodge in love.9

With capacity to bridge the substantial and insubstantial, music truly heals all ills. It is up to the performer to judge what is necessary for each situation; she charms the sense, captivates the mind, and rebalances the body by choosing what thoughts and passions to express on her instrument. Yet this music is no wicked art to effect outcomes beyond ordinary human capacity. It communicates and consequently modifies mood but, at its most inspired, raises the soul to sacred ecstasy. Presumably, the effects are the same on a solitary performer, members of an ensemble, and any listener: Wee may expresse upon it, Choller, pitty, hatred, Scorn, love, Grief, Joy[.] We may give hope and despair. And [to] those that have the Grace to lift upp their mind to the Contemplation of heavenly things This Celestiall harmony contributes much to raise our Soules and make them melt in the love of God.10

The treatise emphasizes that audible music received its power from heaven and that conjoined with contemplation it could help the sensing soul recall its divine origin. The lute not only acquired a kind of soul through performance but had heard, and presumably absorbed, angelic music. This would be retransmitted by the powers of sympathy. The corollary that some equate mar-

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riage to a lutenist with possessing an angel incarnate would certainly inspire a nubile learner and perhaps add spice to her conversation: Nothing represents soo well [as the lute] the Consorts of Angelicall quires and gives more foretaste of heavenly Joyes and of everlasting happiness. . . . Some have believed that they should possesse an Angell incarnate if they could unite themselfes by a Marriage to a person that injoyes this rare qualitye [of playing the lute].11

All told, the musical discourse in Burwell’s lute book complements the instrumental lessons not only by initiating the reader-­transcriber into a century-­old conversation defending music and enumerating its powers. It also emphasizes that the performer could use music to mend mind and body, inspire earthly and heavenly love, and retain control over self and situation. The text reiterates that these capacities are of divine and specifically Christian origin, granting the performer-­conversationalist ability to defend her art and use it as positively intended. In particular, music, here mediated by a skilled lutenist, was a well-­documented cure and preventive measure for disorders of mind and body.

Music and Medicine Music’s mood-­moderating capacities and ability to redress bodily and spiritual imbalances rendered it a powerful therapeutic force. It had been linked in Western thought to medicine since antiquity. Bacon reminds readers of his Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning that the two arts were fundamentally similar and embodied by the same mythic figure. In addition, inverse to the musician who used her instrument to heal, he explains that the physician metaphorically kept in tune and in working order the instrument that was the body: this various and subtle composition and fabrique of mans body, hath made it, as a curious and exquisite instrument, easy to be distemper’d; therefore the Poets did well to conjoyne Musique and Medicine in Apollo; because the Genius of bothe these Arts is almost the same; and the office of a Physitian consisteth meerly in this, to know how to tune and finger this Lyre of mans body; that the Harmony may not become discordant & harsh. So then this inconsistency, and variety of the subject, hath made the Art more conjecturall: And the Art being so conjecturall had given more large scope, not only to error,

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but even to imposture. For almost all other Arts and Sciences are judg’d by their power and operation, and not by their successe.12

Bacon’s reference to the imprecision of medical practice, its large scope, its proximity to quackery, and its judgment by outcome rather than process serves as a reminder that the art of medicine was less narrowly defined than it had since become. Like early modern music, medicine was practiced differently by men and women from contrasting communities of faith, class, geography, education, and training. From before Bacon’s lifetime through Burwell’s, it remained primarily home based, it was dominated by local oral traditions, and most individuals acquired some efficacy with routine use of symbolic and herbal remedies.13 Declares physician and astrologer Nicholas Culpeper (1616–1654) in 1649, “All the Nation are already Phystians, If you ayl any thing, every one you meet, whether man or woman will prescribe medicine for it.”14 Neither medicine nor other healthcare practices were as easy to delineate as they have since become. Only a few were recognized as formal occupations with specialized training or licensed practitioners. Early modern English medicine was as diverse as Bacon and Culpeper indicate. It was a pragmatic art in which bodies, minds, spirits, objects, appearances, and general and specialized training overlapped so that a sufferer had a wide range of potential treatments and practitioners from which to choose. No single set of objects or rituals was prescribed to relieve illness, and the most appropriate dispenser could be anyone with a record of success. Above all, individuals were responsible for their own health maintenance. A wide array of natural and more esoteric remedies was available for routine use and as intervention for acute illness or injury.15 Music had a long-­standing reputation as a therapeutic agent as well as numerous practical parallels to medicine. Like music, medicine had been a component faculty of the university since the Middle Ages but was more than the preserve of a specially trained intellectual elite. Medical knowledge, too, was transmitted in Latin and the vernacular, orally and in writing, and to varying degrees it blended theory with hands-­on practice. Also similar to music—even in the presence of apprenticeships, guilds, and regulatory licensing—many medical practitioners acted without formal sanction by church, state, or occupational organizations.16 The cultured gentleman or gentlewoman such as Mary Burwell learned the fundamentals of healing just as he or she acquired appropriate musical training. Well-­to-­do young ladies such as Burwell were expected after marriage to provide first-­

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line care to members of their households. In fact, starting at the other end of the elegantly bound manuscript that includes her lute manual and probably belonged to her mother, Elizabeth, is a collection of medical remedies with contemporary pagination. Individuals farther down the social scale also found rudimentary medical competence essential to daily life just as they, too, participated in a wide range of music-­making for prayer, pleasure, and profession.17 Apollo’s tuneful art may simply have been among the more ubiquitous and least potentially corrosive agents reputed to heal; the remarkable absence of specific prescriptions for any sort or specific amount of music may stem, at least in part, from the fact that musical dosing error or misrepresentation did not result in permanent organ damage or death.18 In a further parallel to music, medicine intersected with divinity and natural philosophy. Phillips’s 1656 dictionary defines physick primarily as “natural Philosophy,” and only in the second place as “the Art of curing by Medicines.”19 Tudor physician William Bullein (ca.1515–1576) emphasizes in one of many late sixteenth- and seventeenth-­century mass-­market English vernacular healthcare manuals that “God [is] the authour of physicke.”20 Christianity had been from its inception a healing religion. It emphasized the spiritual benefits of sung prayer and, long before the early modern era, considered music a gift from God. Bullein’s younger fellow professional Thomas Cogan (ca. 1545–1607) emphasizes on biblical authority that “Phisicke is the ordinary means which God hath appointed for the preserving and recovering of health.”21 More specifically, Bullein points out that God had embedded healing powers in objects from heaven to earth and designated the physician to help unlock them: The Authour of all things did well forsee and knowe, what was good for mans nature, when hee stretched out so large a compasse round the earth, with the noble Planets and signes, and their courses, influences and heavenly qualities, and garnished the earth with fruits, hearbs, flowers, leaves, graines, oyles, gums, stones, for mans comfort and helpe, and ordained the Physition for to helpe man.22

In this guide to everyday health, Bullein places his art in the service of religion which, of course, maintained its own ordained practitioners and forms of healing. Bullein’s conception of medicine also intersected with natural philosophy, including alchemy, astrology, and magic. During the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, the main approaches to healing among lettered prac-

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titioners, allied with the ancient Galenic system of bodily balance or with the more esoteric teachings of Paracelsus (Philippus Aureolus Bombastus von Hohenheim, 1493–1541) and his followers, have sometimes been considered primarily temporal or primarily spiritual. Yet both required knowledge of manifest and occult properties of things. Both also remained as compatible with Christian faith as Bullein and Cogan indicate of their Galenic-­leaning expertise. In actuality, these systems often merged with each other, with forms of healing by faith or magic, with the strong native traditions of alchemical and astrological healing Bullein references, and with oral and popular information about what worked.23 Music, Apollo’s other discipline, had stood for centuries among the latter two categories if for no other reason than frequent reiteration in written sources. It similarly made manifest celestial influences and had its own resonance with the kind of hidden, harmonious, universal qualities Bullein describes. To these it added service to divinity and moderating effects on ethos. This is the kind of efficacy Burwell learned about lute music, with its heavenly origins, mood-­moderating capacities, and practical applicability to a multitude of situations by way of an object made “of dead and dumbe thinges” ordained for wise human use.24 Burwell’s book, like Robinson’s earlier self-­tutorial Schoole of Musicke, grants the performing musician capacity to heal without being a physician. In short, as early Tudor physician Andrew Boorde (ca. 1490–1549) summarizes in a vernacular medical manual, vocal or instrumental music was an easily accessible “science which is comfortable to man in sicknes and in health.”25 The characteristics that enabled music to bridge body and soul, earth and heaven, and evident and occult qualities had brought it close to medicine long before the early modern era.26 If body and soul recognized different languages, music, with its kinetic insubstantiality and dual status as sensory and cerebral force, enabled communication and subsequent harmonization between the two. “If the constitution of man both bodie and soule, had not some natural, and nighe affinitie with the concordances of Musick,” says Mulcaster, the force of the one, would not so soone stirre up, the cosen motion in the other. It is wonderfull that is written, and strange that we see, what is wrought thereby in the nature of Physick for the remedying of some desperate diseases.27

Music, then, was a well-­documented treatment for those passions and pains that originated in one system and diffused to another. In fact, it is still ac-

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cepted that an individual’s emotional and related physical state may affect aesthetic choice of music and similarly provoke psychological response, release material stored in memory, and alleviate physical pain and emotional distress.28

Music “ to Preserve the Health ” Music, as Burwell learned, was held to work on the human organism from outside in and to complement basic life-­sustaining agents such as food, for which it could mitigate hunger pangs. On the authority of the most revered classical experts, especially Aristotle, Galen, and Hippocrates, early modern thinkers recognized that health and disease involved three sorts of factors: those related to intrinsic bodily structures and processes, those related to hygiene and the environment, and those that caused disease. The earliest mass-­market English-­language treatise on health maintenance, Sir Thomas Elyot’s (ca. 1490–1545) Castel of Helth, first printed in 1538, opens with a table of these “thre sortes of thynges,” the natural (innate), not natural (extrinsic), and “Thynges agaynst Nature” (pathogenic agents) (fig. 5.1).29 Accordingly, wellness was not only a matter of maintaining bodily balance and avoiding sources of illness or injury. It also depended on such auxiliary factors as nutrition, exercise, rest, and sex. These were to be practiced regularly and moderately as befitting each person’s status and constitution, which Cogan makes especially clear in the epistle to the reader of his Haven of Health. “Such as have written of the preservation of health before me,” he says after reviewing the Hippocratic recommendation for moderate use of “labor” (exercise), food, drink, sleep, and “venus” (sex), for the most part have followed the division of thinges not naturall of Galen, whiche be sixe in number: Ayre, Meat, & Drinke, Sleepe and watch, Labour and Rest, Emptinesse and repletion, and Affections of the minde. Which bee called things not naturall, because they be no portion of a naturall, bodie, as they be which be called naturall things, but yet by temperance of them the bodie being in health, so continueth: by the distemperance of them, sicknesse is induced, and the bodie dissolved.” 30

Writers on medicine and conduct of life positioned health-­sustaining music as enhancement to these “nonnatural” or exogenous influences, especially the air that was substantially similar to the sounding art, food and drink,

Figure 5.1 Three Sorts of Things Related to Health and Disease. Thomas Elyot, The Castel of Helth ([London: Thomae Bertheleti], 1541 [1544?]), sig. B. Call # STC 7646. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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work and rest, and above all the “Affectio[n]s of the mynde.”31 We’ve seen music in previous chapters as complement to “venus.” Physician and naturalist Thomas Moffet (Muffett, or Mouffet, 1553–1604) explains in his manual on Healths Improvement that music provided environmental purification and subsequently healed disorders of the two vital organs to which it had immediate interior access, exactly what Burwell later learned. These systemic effects, says Moffett, were increased through the added sensory stimulus of smells, similarly vaporous but more substantial and potentially targeted: Whereat let no man wonder, sith the very noise of bells, guns, and Trumpets, breaketh the clouds, and cleanseth the aire: yea Musick it self, cureth the brain of madness, and the heart of melancholy, as many learned and credible Authors have affirmed. Much more then may it be tempered, and altered to the good or hurt of our inward parts by smells and perfumes, whereby not onely a meer aire (as in Sounds) is carried to the inward parts, but also invisible seeds and substances qualified with variety of divers things.32

Conversely, as Burwell later internalized, music purified the body by driving out noxious vapors lodged in its spirits. In conjunction with another basic metabolic function covered in Burwell’s text, Moffett explains that music had helped the English people “feed much and very diversely” from the ancient days of King Arthur into the author’s own era by “prolonging their sittings” at table. Combined sensory stimuli provided greater benefit, in this case by encouraging diners to enjoy a wider range of nutrients while engaging with music during meals. These salutary effects were increased by good fellowship and dancing afterward as the music continued. Case, physician as much as philosopher, concurs that music aids the first, second, and third stages of digestion to the point that, with such improvement in this basic function, bodies could be kept in good health without the pills of Hippocrates and Galen.33 The combination of music and nutrition was even more advantageous for infants too young to feed diversely or sit at table. Welsh-­born physician John Jones (fl. 1562–1579) emphasizes that a nurse’s choice of song affected not only the emotional state and quality of sleep of her young charge but her own psychophysical health and consequent quality of her milk. Jones especially recommends that she sing psalms “or other suche vertuous & seemly songs wherein some godly Historie, valiant attempt, or noble acte is remembered” in order to avoid passing on “all immoderate passions whilest she giveth suck.” The Praise of Musicke adds that “the sweete songes and lullabyes of his Nurse”

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lure a child to sleep, which helps his physiological and intellectual development.34 For those beyond breast milk and nurses’ songs, Burton recommends for sleep hygiene that an individual should go to bed two or three hours after supper, never on a full stomach, and “lie in cleane linen and sweet, before he goes to bed or in bed to heare sweete Musicke.”35 Music works in tandem with objects of the other senses to balance the complete organism through basic daily needs and all stages of life. Nothing was more important to maintaining basic corporeal health than what Elyot refers to as “movyng” (fig. 5.1) and Cogan describes as “labor,” plus rest. Regular exercise and appropriate recovery of each part contributed to a perfectly tuned, balanced entirety. Music worked a number of external and internal organs as well as the mind because of its material means of production, its diffuse nature, and its similitude to the internal spirits. Case explains on Aristotelian authority that, in addition to the fact that music itself is virtue and harmony, singing provides healthy motion for the lungs, which generates spirit and heat in the vicinity of the heart, dissipates the dense humors abundant in boyhood, and dispels vapors flowing from or around the head. Cogan informs readers that by “moving of the breath in singing, reading, or crying [i.e., shouting],” not just the lungs but “the musckles, and together with them the sinues, veines, arteries, bones are exercised consequently.” Music-­loving country parson Charles Butler concurs that the art is both preventive and remedial medicine for the entire organism, especially in conjunction with large-­ muscle exercise. Singing, he says, causes health of bodi: it being a special means to cleere & strengthen the Lungs: so that . . . a Singing-­man neede never fear the Astma, Peripneumonia, or Consumption: or any other like affections of that vital part: which are the death of many Students. If unto this inward exercise of the Lungs were added the outward exercise of the Lims; they shoolde finde it a means to increase their healthe and to cleere their wits.36

Instrumental music worked fine muscles, joints, and internal organs, and, on its own or in complement to singing, offered refreshment to parts worn from tedious tasks. It similarly complemented more strenuous full-­body training. Galenic physician Levinus Lemnius (1505–1568) concludes a defense of the benefits of the “boisterous exercises” of “Wrestling, Coytinge, Tennis, Bowling, Whorlebatting, lifting great wayghtes, pitching the Barre, ryding, running, Leaping, shooting in Gunnes, swimming, tossing the pike, Tylting, Barryers and Tourney” by explaining that

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There bee other kyndes of exercise not of so greate travayle as these, & lesse troublesome: as . . . walking ether sortly or apace, Singing and musical melody, chaunted eyther wth lively voice, or played upon sweete Instrumentes, to the eares and mynde ryght pleasant and delightful, dryving awaye heavynes, and cheeryng and reviving the Spirites, when they are damped with thoughtes and carefull pensivenes. And if thereto bee used a cleare and lowde reading of bigge tuned soundes by stops and certayne Pauses, as our comicall felowes now do, that measure rhetoricke by their pevish Rhythmes, it wil bring exceding much good to the breast and Muscles. No lesse ease and profite likewyse shall a man therby fynde for the opening of his pipes and expelling the[n]ce al obstructions. . . . But this in yong me[n (]sayth Galen) is to be moderated til they be at consistent Age, and in mornings when the body is empty and not infarced neither with nightlye exercyse of venerous pastymes afore, wearyed and weakned.37

Lemnius clarifies that music not only stirred the bodily limbs and organs but also revived spirits, mind, and mood. For him, the art has best medicinal effect in moderation and at its proper time of both life and day, when the body is best prepared to receive its full benefits. Such systemic renewal through music was held to affect the senses and purify the blood, which Jones reminds readers helped nourish the fetus in utero and made up the best and whitest breast milk.38 Habitual practice of music strengthened and kept flexible the fingers, hands, arms, and vocal apparatus from lips to lungs while training the ear, reviving the spirits, and improving the mind as we saw in the previous chapter. These salutary exercises also enabled relief from the tedium of more intense physical or intellectual work as well as from mental disturbances. Butler notes that “One special Use [of music] is to cheere and comfort men, while they ar busy in their painful Vocations; so to deceiv their tedious time.”39 The Praise of Musicke concurs: “Even the ploughma[n] & cartar, are by the instinct of their harmonicall soules co[m]pelled to frame their breath into a whistle, thereby not only pleasing the[m]selves, but also diminishing the tediousnes of their labors,” says its author. “And hence it is,” he continues, that manual labourers, and Mechanicall artificers of all sorts, keepe such a chaunting and singing in their shoppes, the Tailor on his bulk, the Sho[e]‑ maker at his last, the Mason at his wal, the shipboy at his oare, the Tinker at his pan, & the Tylor on the house top. . . . Every troublesom & laborious occupation useth Musick for a solace & recreation.”40

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Cogan typically locates music in his section on Labor, where, on Aristotelian authority, it would not only provide relief during and after “painful Vocations,” but increase virtue and decorum: There is nothing more comfortable, or that more reviveth the spirits than Musicke. . . . [Aristotle] declareth that Musick is to be learned, not only for solace and recreation, but also because it moveth men to vertue and good maners, and prevaileth greatly to wisdome, quietnes of mind, and contemplation. . . . And how comfortable Musicke is to all sorts of men, wee may plainly perceive by labourers; for the Gally-­man, the Plough-­man, the Carter, the Carier, ease the tediousnesse of their labour and journey with singing and whistling: yea, the brute beasts be delighted with songs and noyses, as Mules with bels, Horses with Trumpets and Shalmes. . . . Wherefore I counsell all students oftentimes to refresh their wearied minds with some sort of melody. For so shall they drive away the dumps of melancholy, and make their spirits more lively to learne.41

The positive physical effects of music are inseparable from the moral and the affective and are shared among all living creatures. The art relieves the tedium of manual and mental labor alike. However, the physician-­author does not prescribe any sort or dose of music, especially for young learners wearied by study. “But what kinde of Musicke every student should use,” he says, “I refer to their owne inclination.”42 Personal taste must also have guided his galleyman, ploughman, carter, and carrier in their singing and whistling as much as it did The Praise’s manual and mechanical workers. Such medical inexactitude provided an opportunity for enterprising composers, music printers, and others invested in musical commerce for consumers who wanted prepackaged collections from which to choose potentially restorative music. In 1588, Byrd offered Psalmes, sonets, & songs of sadness and pietie to Sir Christopher Hatton, Lord Chancellor of England, in the hopes that “these poore songs of mine might happily yield some sweetnesse, repose, and recreation unto your Lordships mind, after your dayly paines and cares taken in the high affaires of the Common Wealth.” Twenty years later, Thomas Bateson dedicated his Second Set of Madrigales to “the Right Honorable Arthure Lord Chichester, Baron of Belfast, Lord High Treasurer of Ireland, and one of his Majesties most Honorable Privy Counsell.” The highly varied contents, says Bateson, were “solely entended for your Honors private recreation, after your tedious imployments in the affayres of the common-­wealth.”43 However Hatton and Chichester may have used the

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contents, the suggestion of mental refreshment remained for purchasers of either aesthetically diverse volume. Further down the social scale and more inclusively stated, Morley offered “to the Worshipfull Maister Henrie Tapsfield[,] Citizen and Grocer of the Cittie of London” in 1597 “these poore Canzonets, by mee collected from divers excellent Italian Authours, for the honest recreation of your selfe and others.” The varied contents, all with English text, present a range of technical challenges for singers who wanted relatively light, fashionable Italian works in their native language. An Howres Recreation in Musicke, apt for Instrumentes and Voyces, declares the title page of Richard Al[l]ison’s collection of 1606, “Framed for the delight of Gentlemen and others . . . all for the most part with two trebles, necessarie for such as teach in private families.”44 Thus are young learners given a gateway to exercise, reinvigoration, and perhaps even virtue from guided study with their masters, even as the diverse contents could be used independently by any combination of singers and instrumentalists. The wide-­ranging repertory that supplements Ravenscroft’s Briefe Discourse is organized around “the common Recreations that men take,” each a Hippocratic-­Galenic nonnatural: “the boisterous exercises” of hunting, hawking, and dancing, plus drinking, plus “enamoring.”45 The translator of the Elizabethan vernacular edition of Aristotle’s Politics concurs with such recommendations and practices. For him, as for Cogan, music eases labor, reinforces moral education, and purges negative emotion, and the choice of repertory depends on personal inclination. He recommends music for routine self-­practice of recreation and purgation (Elyot’s “Emptines”) but recognizes that different kinds of music have distinct effects, some harmful, others healing. “Songs bee morall, or active, or ravishing,” he ­explains. Those bee morall which imitate the manners and affections, and apperteine to instruction. Those active, which pertaine to rest and pleasure, to the end, to recreate the mind, and rest the bodie, that it may return stronger to labour. Those ravishing, which are vehement, as the sound of Trumpets, Drummes, and Cornets, whereby mens minds are vehemently mooved, as it were put out of reason. . . . It is therefore convenient to use Musicke for three causes, namely, instruction, purgation, and recreation: neither must good harmonies onely bee used for honest and skillful persons, but sometimes also such as are leud and wanton must be used in the theatres to recreate the vulgar and mechanicall sort, whose minds being depraved, take pleasure in like kinds of harmonies: for every one delighteth in that which best fits his nature.46

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Conduct writers not only recommended such boisterous large-­muscle activities as riding, tennis, and archery as means of maintaining health for the well-­to-­do, well-­balanced man. In a work dedicated to that versatile practitioner of the manly arts and Galenic nonnaturals, King Henry VIII, writer and royal tutor Roger Ascham (1514/15–1568) recommends music as adjunct to archery. He also cautions that Galen and several respected Greek writers had warned that healthy men must use the former moderately or risk becoming unmanly. Ascham also refers to the exemplary figure of Apollo, whom “both merie songes and good sho[o]ting delighteth.” King Henry himself, in the lyric to his most famous composition, “Pastime With Good Company,” presents hunting, singing, and dancing in that order as coequal pastimes.47 In parallel to Cogan, the English version of Castiglione’s manual of courtly conduct emphasizes music for its powers of systemic recreation for laboring men and women as well as courtiers. It refreshes mind as well as body for workers of all sorts, and, even at its simplest, eases discomfort and care: And the Counte [Lewis of Canossa] beginning a freshe, my Lordes (quoth he) you must thinke I am not pleased with the Courtyer if he be not also a musitien, and beside his understanding and couning upon the booke, have skill in lyke maner on sundrye instruments. For yf we waie it well, there is no ease of the labours and medicines of feeble mindes to be found more honeste and more praise worthye in tyme of leyser then it . . . and that [God] hath geven it unto us for a most swete lightning of our travailes and vexations. So that many times the boisterous labourers in the fieldes in the heate of the sunne beguyle theyr paine with rude and cartarlyke singing. With this the unmanerly countreywoman that aryseth before daye oute of her slepe to spinne and carde, defendeth her self and maketh her labour pleasant. . . . In lyke maner for a greater proofe that the tunablenes of musicke (though it be rude) is a very great refreshi[n]g of al worldly paines and griefs.48

Peacham the Younger, son of a preacher and rhetorician, emphasizes singing as exercise to improve elocution and maintain the entire speech apparatus. He explains that the exercise of singing openeth the breast and pipes [and] is a most ready helpe for a bad pronunciation, and distinct speaking which I have heard confirmed by many divines; yea, I my selfe have knowne many Children to have bin holpen of their stammering in speech, onely by it.49

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Mulcaster follows the Aristotelian program for beginning musical education in childhood for its combined physiological and moral benefits. He, too, references pliability of the joints and vocal apparatus but mentions the low cost of training the latter. Thus, song is accessible to all, but instrumental music requires a greater investment of money, time, and training: Musicke . . . is devided into two partes, the voice and the instrument . . . bothe the two in this age [of childhood] best be begon, while both the voice and the jointe be pliable to the traine. The voice craveth lesse coste to execute her part. . . . The instrument seemeth more costly, and claimes both more care in keping, and more charge in compassing.50

Byrd likewise considers song universally beneficial and accessible. The verso of the title page of Psalmes, sonets, & songs presents eight “Reasons briefely set downe by th’auctor, to perswade every one to learne to sing” and presumably purchase his book. The composer-­entrepreneur, too, begins with the familiar physiological benefits: “The Exercise of singing is delightfull to Nature, & good to preserve the health of Man” and “It doth strengthen all parts of the brest, & doth open the pipes.” Furthermore, he adds in parallel to Peacham, “It is a singular good remedie for a stutting & stammering in the speech.” Byrd goes further to include aesthetic and spiritual advantages of singing. This art, especially “where the voyces are good, and the same well sorted and ordered,” is beyond comparison to mere instrumental music, and enables honor and service to God.51 Music made by exercising the voice and small joints helped maintain comprehensive psychophysical health, especially along with other nonnaturals and sometimes service to God. Its acknowledged salutary benefits were “so great, that it refuseth neither any sexe, nor any age,” though for women it complemented more gender-­appropriate exercises than archery, wrestling, weight training, or marksmanship.52 Away from men it might inflame to “venus” or “enamouring,” the art helped strengthen and maintain women’s physical and spiritual faculties. On January 26, 1599 (1600), Lady Margaret (Dakins) Hoby (1571–1633), daughter-­in-­law to the English translator of Castiglione’s Courtyer, recounts in her diary that “After dinner I dressed up my clositte and read, and to refresh my selfe being dull, I plaide and sang to the Alpherion.”53 Here, following a meal, she exercised her spiritual faculties by the convention of “dressing up” her prayer closet with fragments of text to aid meditation and by reading, and then she allayed nonspecific “dull-

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ness” by singing and playing music. Lady Grace (Sharrington) Mildmay (ca. 1552–1620) connects her exercise of music even more closely to divinity as well as Apollo’s other art and to complementary and appropriately feminine exercise of her finger joints and hand-­eye coordination. She recounts in her memoirs that as a young bride, every day after reading from several books of the Bible, “I spent some time in playing on my lute and setting songs of five parts thereunto and practiced my voice in singing of psalms and making my prayers to God and confessing my sins. . . . Also every day I spent some time in the herbal and books of physic and in ministering to one or other by the directions of the best physicians of mine acquaintance. . . . Also every day I spent some time in works of mine own invention . . . for carpet or cushion work and to draw flowers and fruits to their life with my plummet upon paper. All which variety of exercises did greatly recreate my mind . . . [and] they did me good in as much as I found in myself that God wrought with me in all.”54 Her musical routine used body, mind, and soul as she either arranged or composed her own settings for her lute and alternated sung psalms with spoken prayer and confession for vocal exercise. The music, embroidery, and drawing were clearly for herself, but her medical practice, guided by professionals, benefitted others. It was all linked to the divinity that stood at the core of her life. Mulcaster reminds readers that learning to exercise and discipline the body through music had long been recognized to benefit soul as much as body, which Hoby and Mildmay must have internalized in childhood: The Philosophers, and Physicians, do allow the straining, and recoyling of the voice in children, yea though they crie and baule, beside their singing, and showting: by the waie of exercise to stretche, and kepe open the hollow passages, and inward pipes of the tender bulke, whereby Musicke will prove a double principle both for the soule, by the name of learning, and for the body, by the way of exercise, as hereafter shall appeare.55

This “double principle,” continues Mulcaster, goes beyond learning and labor to ethos and control of the emotions as an extension of the common numerical substrate of the mind or soul, and music. The scie[n]ce [of music] it selfe hath naturally a verie forcible strength to trie and tuche the inclination of the minde, to this or that affection, thorough the propertie of number, whereon it consisteth, which made the Pythagorean, and not him alone, to plat the soule out so much upon number.56

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This musically manipulable emotionality makes up the final nonnatural with which the art was associated: “Affectio[n]s of the mynde” or soul (fig. 5.1). These agents of mental and emotional health bridged extrinsic influences, material qualities of the body, and the soul in all its complexities. Fundamentally, affections were the thoughts or states of the soul that presented things as good or evil. In so doing, they provoked powerful reactions throughout the human organism. They were sometimes termed passions, accidents, or perturbations, and they effected evident physical change as they passed between soul and body. Technically, affect or affection referred to the active principle or general disposition and passion to subjective response. But such distinction was not always drawn. The Latin cognate affectus also encompassed affliction and desire. And passion, from Latin passiō or passiōn, not only denoted passivity but also suffering, violent emotionality, and sometimes sense perception. The relevant bodily pathways for these “Affectio[n]s of the mynde” by any name involved heart, spirits, imagination, all seven Galenic “Thynges Naturall,” and the sensitive soul as well as sense receptors. On Platonic-­Galenic authority, they were motions that occurred in one thing because of another, including changes in sense perception.57 This is the kind of juncture between material objects and immaterial processes where music tended to be located. Burwell, as we have seen, lumps together her lute’s power against harmful passions, disease, and pain from physical injury. Her text also acknowledges that the instrument’s music afforded pleasure to the soul through labors of the fingers and by means of the two most pristine senses. Jones reminds us that the same ubiquitous commonplaces about how “the passions, perturbations, and affections, must therefore be moderated by Musicke” belonged as much to handbooks on medicine as to musical discourse. The connection was supported by Galen, “the authoritie of Aesculapius and Hippocrates,” and the biblical tale of David’s musical cure of Saul. Thomas Wright reiterates the same and adds divine providence to causes of excessive passion and the efficacy of musical cure. At a more local level, he explains, the extrinsic influences of “meat, drinke, exercise, and aire set passions aloft,” and music, by virtue of sympathy with the soul or similitude with bodily spirits and internal pathways, mitigates them.58 Wright’s explication of “What we Understand by Passions and Affections” equates affect, passion, and perturbation, and emphasizes their kinetic nature and location between interior and exterior processors. Consistent with his training and ordination in service of the divine “author of physick,” his emphasis is on directionality from soul to body. “Three sortes of actions proceede from mens soules,” he begins:

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Some are internall and immateriall, as the actes of our wittes and willes; others be meere externall and materiall, as the acts of our senses, seeing, hearing, moving, &c. others stand betwixt these two extreames, and border vpon them both. . . . Those actions then which are common with us, and beastes, wee call Passions, and Affections, or perturbations of the mind . . . They are called Passions (although indeed they be actes of the sensitive power, or facultie of our soule, and are . . . a sensual motion of our appetitive facultie, through imagination of some good or ill thing) because when these affections are stirring in our minds, they alter the humours of our bodies, causing some passion or alteration in them. They are called perturbations for that . . . they trouble wonderfully the soule, corrupting the judgement, & seducing the will, inducing (for the most part) to vice, and commonly withdrawing from vertue, and therefore some call them maladies, or sores of the soule. They bee also named affections, because the soule by them, either affecteth some good, or for the affection of some good, detesteth some ill. These passions then be certaine internall actes or operations of the soule, . . . causing therewithall some alteration in the body.59

Wright is equally careful to explain that disorders of the passions belonged as much to “the Physitian of the soule” as “the Physitian of the bodie, for that there is no Passion very vehement but that it alters extreamely some of the foure humors of the bodie; and all Physitians commonly agree, that among diverse other extrinsicall causes of diseases, one, and not the least, is the excesse of some inordinate Passion” because “an operation that lodgeth in the soule can alter the bodie.”60 Physician of the body Lemnius agrees. Although the soul is immaterial, he explains, it is subject to the passions, perturbations, and affections that resound on the body because it carries the body about “as a Snail doth her shell,” using it to perform its functions and conversely feels its reverberations. “So great is the sympathy and affinity between them,” he concludes, “that some faults of the body fall upon the Mind, and some of the Mind upon the body.”61 In spite of frequent quarrels with ancient authority, Descartes fundamentally concurs. “I consider that we observe not any thing, which more immediately agitates our soul than the body joined to it,” he says, “& consequently we ought to conceive that what in that is a Passion, is commonly in this an Action.”62 Hume’s untexted “Pashion of Musicke” for up to four instruments, or two to three instruments plus voice, referentially contextualizes this general understanding by its rapid up-­and-­down motion exchanged between parts on instruments brought to responsive life by performative action that

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would, in turn, be transmitted body to body and interior to interior for further processing.63 Where Leonard Wright (no relation to Thomas) properly begins his commonplaces “Of Musicke” with a definition, he concludes with the greatest praise he can give the art: that it mitigates disorders lodged in both mind or soul and body and renders toxic affect benign. In a pair of easily memorizable couplets, he reminds readers or reader-­conversationalists that music restores mental balance through the physical: the art that cures sickness consequently elevates mood. Like other prescribers, he leaves choice of repertory to the sufferer’s taste and perhaps musical ability: If sicknesse do opresse thy corps, Prepare sweete Musickes art: Which pensive dumps, and carefull thoughts, To mirth will soone convart.64

In this as in similar statements by the likes of Castiglione, Cogan, Jones, Lemnius, Moffett, and Mulcaster, we see glimmerings of what modern cognitive and neurological studies have confirmed: music not only shapes emotional response but produces detectable changes in underlying autonomic and somatic function. These, in turn, influence experience and behavior.65

Music and the Humors: Balancing the Self Music was not only a means to enhance routine life-­sustaining practices of mind and body, especially in tandem with other forms of motion or objects of the other senses. It also helped keep in tune those components that Elyot describes as being “alway in the naturall body,” and it mitigated systemic disorders (fig. 5.1). These ends were not mutually exclusive. Musical performance exercised the “thynges natural” of members, powers of sensation, and spirits even as it enhanced the equally vital “thynges not natural” from surrounding air to mood. For Elyot as for all heirs of the Aristotelian-­Hippocratic-­ Galenic system that dominated medical belief and practice from antiquity through the early modern era, the first “natural” aspect of the body was its “Elementes,” followed by “Complections” and the “Humours” that Wright references as alterable by the passions (fig. 5.1). Nowhere was music more frequently referenced than in service of these four fluid bodily principles derived from the four elements and related fundamental qualities of hot, cold, wet, and dry. These humors, in turn, infused the complexion. Wright reminds readers that they were affected by actions of the soul, and Burwell’s treatise

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shows that they were moderated by music. At its most basic, humoral theory considered health an individualized equilibrium between blood, phlegm, yellow bile or choler, and black bile or melancholy. Following refinement by digestive heat and subsequent passage through the vital organs, these humors permeated each human organism from skin to soul. They governed temperament as well as appearance and affected all functions from basic metabolism to behavior and even likes and dislikes. Just as the human body reflected the plan of the universe, so were the humors tied to the four seasons, the four orbs of heaven, the four ages of man, and, as we saw Campion demonstrate by extension in chapter 3, the four fundamental voice types of polyphonic music. Humoral medicine was thus a holistic system that posited a combination of environmental and innate factors on physiology and personality type. It located emotionality within the body that was, in turn, subject to external influence. Church of England clergyman Thomas Walkington (ca. 1575–1621) explains that Of the predominion of any element, or rather the qualities of the element, the complexion hath his peculiar denomination as if the element of fire be chieftaine, the body is said to be cholericke: if aire beare rule, to be sanguine: if water be in his vigour, the body is sayd to be phlegmaticke: if earth have his dominion, to bee melancholicke. . . . These four complexions are compared to the four elements secondly to the four planets, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Luna.66

Healthy individuals displayed a range of proportions between the four humors, endowing each with an elemental complexion and unique constitution or temperament. This had to remain in balance for body, mind, and soul to function correctly. In the same tradition as Bacon, Lemnius likens maintaining the proper temperament to keeping a multistringed instrument in tune: Temperamente . . . is an agreement, and conveniencie of the first qualities & Elementes amonge themselves. . . . And as in Musicall Instruments there is percyved a certayne accord of tunes and a sweete agreeable harmonie in stryking the stringes . . . so likewise in a temperate habite of the body, there is an apt and convenient mixture and temperature of the Elements and qualities, insomuch that no one qualitye can by it selfe be shewed, but a constant, absolute and perfect composition, & mingling of the qualities and Elements all together.67

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Josuah Sylvester’s elegant 1611 translation of the seigneur Du Bartas’s Divine Weekes and Workes explains “A foure-­folde Consort in the humours, seasons, and Elements” as But, brimmer far than the Heav’ns, heer All these sweet-­charming Counter-­tunes we hear: For, Melancholy, Winter, Earth belowe, Bear aye the Base; deep, hollow, sad, and slowe: Pale Phleagm, moist Autumn, Water, moistly-­cold, The Plummet-­like-­smooth-­sliding Tennor hold: Hot-­humid Bloud, the Spring, transparent Air, The Maze-­like Mean, that turns and wends so fair: Curst Choler, Sommer, and hot-­thirsty Fire, Th’high-­warbling Treble, loudest in the Quire.68

In the same way the four elements made up all sublunary matter, the humors constituted the body. Each person’s temperament was a distinctive blend between the four, but one was always dominant. Physicians and sufferers had to remain aware of individual variation while recognizing the characteristic norms and pathologies of each type: the sanguine (blood), phlegmatic (phlegm), bilious or choleric (yellow bile), and melancholic (black bile). These categories were recognizable by physical features and personality traits beginning with complexion and body type and moving on to habits of mind and routine behaviors. The humoral temperament held the body in balance and caused intellectual faculties to function normally.69 Commonplace medical heritage taught that sanguine individuals were ruddy, muscular, amiable, merry, bold, and lecherous; phlegmatics were fat, dull-­witted, and sleepy; cholerics were yellowish or otherwise fair complected, lean, subtle, cruel, hasty, envious, and covetous; and melancholic men and women were dark, heavy, solitary, fearful, and introspective. Lemnius further explains, relating fundamental physical elements to humoral manifestations, that cholerick men are hot and presently angry: and as straw and stubble presently takes fire; for they by the thinnesse of a hot humour, and sudden inflammation are more weakly angry, for their anger suddenly grows cold, and they are pacified; But melancholique people are slower before they grow angry; and they are so mindfull of injuries, that they will hardly be friends any more. But phlegmatique people as they are cold and moist, are scarse ever moved with passions of the mind, and are never greatly troubled with any thing;

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whence it is that they are slothfull and sluggish. . . . But sanguin people are of hot and moist constitutions, and are held with no waighty or serious business or cares, but are wholly taken upon with sports, tales, songs, and jears, and complements, and take care for nothing but pleasures, and delights, which conditions and differences of men alter according to the quality, and mixture of the humours, according to the climate and Ayre they live in; and they do variously affect the minds of men, and therefore I am perswaded, that the humours are the causes of Passions.70

Musical modes had been associated with the humors because both systems were codified in antiquity. The notion that each humoral type had a corresponding sort of music remained long after “mode” lost association with the ancient Greek ethnic regions that inspired its names and associated affective qualities. Inclination toward music of a particular scale type, fundamental melodic pattern, or other basic structural principle was believed able to reinforce an individual’s dominant humor to maintain health. Or it could complement it to correct imbalance allopathically. Boethius had stated that “when we hear what is properly and harmoniously united in sound in conjunction with that which is harmoniously coupled and joined within us and are attracted to it, then we recognize that we ourselves are put together in its likeness. . . . From this cause, radical transformations in character also arise” if an individual overindulged in similar music. For example, “a lascivious disposition” (sanguine) and “a rougher spirit” (choleric) could respectively became overly soft and corrupt or warlike and savage by delighting too much in complementary music. This idea was frequently reiterated among early modern commonplaces of music. More specifically, The Praise of Musicke aligns the defining features of four ancient modes with recognizably humoral types. “For Modus Dorius,” begins the author, being a grave and staied part of musicke answereth to that which I called chast and temperate [phlegmatic]. Modus Lydius used in comedies in former times, being more lighter and wanton than Dorius, answereth to that which I termed amarous and delightsome [sanguine]. Modus Phrygius distracting the mind variably, also called Bacchicus for his great force & violence answereth to that which I call warlik [choleric], and Mixolydius most used in tragedies expressing in melodie those lamentable affections which are in tragedies represented, auswereth to that which I named Melancholike and dolefull.71

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Butler, too, gives four examples of musical character that align with the humors. In contrast to The Praise, his are practical instructions to set and perform texted music, they but may also suggest how sufferers chose music appropriate to their dominant humor or to restore balance. “Plain and slow Musik is fit for grave and sad matter,” he says of what may be best suited to the plain and slow phlegmatic, “qik notes or Triple time, for Mirth and rejoicing,” he continues with suitability to the merry sanguine. A manly, hard, angry, or cruel matter is to be expressed by hard and harsh short tones qik Bindings, and concording Cadences; and that with the ordinary or unaltered Notes of the Scale: but words of effeminate lamentations, sorrowful passions, and complaints, ar fitly exprest by the inordinate half-­ notes (such as ar the small keys of the Virginals) which change the direct order of the Scale; flattening the Notes naturally sharp and sharping them which are naturally flat: and those in longer time; with slow Bindings and discording Cadences.72

Later the same century, Burwell learned that her lute was especially fit to assuage choler and melancholy—the extremes of anger and deep sorrow for which Butler suggests the greatest compositional artifice and consequent challenge to the performer—along with pain from disease or injury. Music was therefore available to represent and presumably attract all humoral types seeking maintenance through similitude or balance through opposition. Clever composers following Butler’s model could set complex emotional texts with appropriately varied music. However, the frequent references to mournful or merry music and the art’s powers to arouse sexually or spiritually or move a man to tears played into the highly desirable sanguine and most debated melancholy types. Within humoral theory, the warmly extroverted sanguine, dominated by pulsing blood from the heart and a well-­ tempered brain, was deemed most well balanced, suggesting youth, springtime, love, brightness, and wit.73 He or she had abundant warmth and moisture, a telltale ruddy complexion sometimes offset by contrasting whiteness, and was dominated by elemental air and the planet Jupiter. Lemnius shows that such an individual was drawn toward mirth, merriment, song, and sensory pleasure. Walkington further explains of this most congenial humor that They [that are of the sanguine complexion] bee liberally minded, they carry a constant loving affection, to them chiefly unto whom they bee indeared, and

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with whom they are intimate, and chained in the links of true amity, never giving over till death such a converst friend, except on a capitall discontent. They are very hairy: their head is commonly a[u]bran or amber-­coloured, so their beards: they are much delighted with a musicall consent and harmony, having so sweet a sympathy themselves of soule and body. And but for one fault they are tainted with, they might well be termed Heroes hominum, and that is . . . they are somewhat too prone to Venery, which greatly alters their blessed state of constitution, drinks up their humidum radicale, enfeebleth the divinest power, consumes their pith, and spends the substance of the braine.74

Music, which regulated the heart, revived the spirits, and relieved mental and physical weariness, came as naturally to the sanguine as eating, drinking, and loving. Harmony was as much part of his or her constitution as amity and vivacity, making it especially easy to remain in tune or heal others through therapeutic music. However, the sanguine’s innate tendency toward venereal excess roused the same erotic urges and carnal desires against which so many writers of the era cautioned. Therefore such “lascivious disposition” was also more likely to become too soft (“effeminate”) and corrupt through excess of the wrong kind of music. Though steadfast in their loves, these hot-­blooded men and women easily become enslaved to their passions, aroused to distraction and illness by excessive pursuit of fleshly delights. Regular, moderate use of appropriate music may have offered the best treatment for that one fault. As Burwell learned, music rose directly into the brain “as an intellectual Dew doth moisten gently the heat and drines[s] of it,” countering the damaging effects Walkington describes. Conversely, the sanguine may have had an advantage as performer or recipient of musical courtship. One doubts that the famously music-­loving Elizabeth I—portrayed throughout her long reign with abundant auburn- or amber-­colored hair, red-­and-­white-­roses complexion, and as the eternally youthful “Queen of Love and Beauty” framed now and then by flowers, including her dynastic rose (fig. 5.2)—was unaware of these associations as she bestowed intimate musical favors on visiting dignitaries and men from her own court.75 The sanguine is perhaps most cleverly personified as the handsome, beautifully proportioned lutenist playing beside a caprine companion in the younger Peacham’s emblem book Minerva Britanna (fig. 5.3). The epigram explains of the sumptuously clad, fruit-­wreathed youth with flowing hair that the sanguine type is bold, bounteous, and benign, as attractive and vigorous as the roses and lilies that mingle in his complexion, decorate his clothes,

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Figure 5.2 Queen Elizabeth I by Nicholas Hilliard, watercolor on vellum, 1572, NPG 108. © National Portrait Gallery, London.

and dot his native landscape. He remains meek, fair of speech, loving, and studious, an easygoing friend to the learned, drawn toward music and merriment. However, visually and through Peacham’s text, we are reminded that his sunny disposition and love of pleasure may mask a tendency toward erotic and gustatory excess. In the tradition of the moralizing bestiary, in which animals represent human virtues and vices, “there is no beast more prone and given to lust than is a Goate, for he joyneth in copulation before all other beastes.”76 The unrestrained grape-­gulping one at the Sanguine’s side specifically denotes “his pronenes both to women, and to wine.” The bearded creature has stripped bare the vine, leaving a conspicuously barren stump against the lush May landscape. Furthermore, the young man’s “girlondes gay” and flowery attire suggest the visual equivalent of the ornate, lust-­provoking songs of erotic love against which sober-­minded writers warned modest, godly persons.77 The temperance Lemnius recommends seems especially applicable to warmly passionate sanguine individuals, with their tendency toward sensory overindulgence and consequent enfeeblement of body and brain:

Figure 5.3 Emblem “Sanguis.” Henry Peacham, Minerva Britanna, fol. 127. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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There is no mortal Man that is not led by his passions, and perturbations, and is more easily forced by the motions of his mind. For they that are of a good bodily temper, and lead a temperate life, and sober diet, are lesse wont to be troubled with passions.78

Peacham’s Sanguine, “for studies fit,” visually dominates his caprine alter ego as he plays his lute, which, in its static silence, becomes a polyvalent signifier. The instrument shows off his body to make him an object of desire, while his industrious fingers remind viewers that it can ravish the soul by eye as well as ear. The Sanguine is thus a classic musical seducer. On the other hand, the lute keeps his hands, arms, head, and presumably brain and heart industriously occupied, and, as Burwell later inscribed, is especially fit to assuage the unsanguine-­like passions of choler, sorrow, and pain. Vibrating against his chest as he plays, this lute could certainly tell another what he has in his heart even while it moderates his own heartstrings and maintains the temperature and moistness of his brain. Within the frame, the lute balances the goat’s enthusiastic destruction of “the climbing vine,” and its pegbox points toward a growing rose and lily. Thus the youth makes music instead of joining his companion in vinous excess. Ravenscroft had reminded readers a few years be‑ fore the appearance of Peacham’s book that adding the element of air—the sanguine element—to the fire and water to which it is proximate by singing during recreational drinking enables performers “to grow exceeding skilfull” instead of “cost[ing] their Braines a fiering, and their Bowells a drowning” in excess alcohol. So does Peacham’s wise young man counter his “proneness . . . to wine” while presumably keeping his brain moist and his bowels unbesotted.79 This would also seem to be Iago’s trick in singing merry songs while Cassio consumes wine to the point of drunkenness in the same time frame in Shakespeare’s Othello (act 2, scene 3, lines 64–95); in fact, the traditional theatrical tune for the only one of his songs found in roughly contemporary sources is the very epitome of sanguine music with its quick notes, triple time, dominant upward motion, and emphasis on melodic major triads.80 The general characteristics of sanguine music—which could balance other humoral types if sometimes prove excessive for the natural sanguine—include, in addition to occasional florid ornament and “qik notes or Triple time,” emphasis on concordant intervals with minimal dissonance; steady rhythm and regular, often dance-­ like metrical pulse; long, airy, unbroken phrases; and diatonic melodies with leaps to consonant intervals, especially rising major thirds.81 In fact, one of the most timeless, culturally widespread sensorimotor metaphors is that “happy is up,” reflected in the steady, rising motives of such sanguinary music.82

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In keeping with the era’s dualistic conception of music as inflamer of the passions and agent of inward reflection and spiritual enlightenment, the other humor with which the art was most associated was melancholy.83 Just as sanguis was more than purified blood, melancholy went beyond black bile. Within humoral medicine and its extensions into astrology and alchemy, it was affiliated with Saturn, elemental earth, cool moisture, and autumn as a season and metaphorical time of life. Above all, it was associated with darkness and weighty matters, especially metaphysical. Bullokar’s English Expositor presents melancholy as “One of the foure humors in the body, the grossest of all other, which if it abound too much, causeth heavinesse and sadnesse of minde.”84 “If you desire to know this complection by their habit and guise,” says Lemnius, “they are of a blacke swarthy visage, dull-­paced, sad countenance, harbouring hatred long in their breastes, hardly incensed with anger and if angry, long ore this passion be appeased and mitigated, crafty headed, constant in their determination, fixing their eies visually on the earth.”85 The archetypal melancholic was thus an introvert or misanthrope with innate tendency toward sorrow, contemplation, and heaviness of spirit. The airy, sensual, blood-­warming aspect of music was, for many commentators, the most obvious treatment. Bullein explains that Above all earthly thinges, mirth is most excellent, and the best companion of life, putter away of all diseases: the contrarie in plague time bringeth on the pestilence, through painefull melancholie, which maketh the body heavy & earthly. Company, musicke, honest gaming, or any other vertuous exercise doeth helpe agaynst heavinesse of mind.86

Du Laurens reminds readers that there was a well-­established body of literature, drawn from classicism and the Bible, to support this kind of therapy: The old writers did commend Musicke in all melancholike diseases. . . . Empedocles Agrigentinus, did mitigate and appease the furiousnes of a certaine young man, with the melodiousnes of his song. Clinius the Musition as soone as he perceived his melancholike fit to come upon him, would betake him to his harpe, and keepe backe by this meanes the motions of the humour. David also when the evill spirit came upon Saul, made him merrie with his harpe, and he found ease thereby.87

Physician Timothy Bright (1549/50–1615) specifically recommends for most sufferers tuneful music “such as carieth an odde measure, and easie to be

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discerned” (i.e., a triple meter with regular pulse, the essence of sanguine music). He adds through synesthetic analogy that “as pleasant pictures, and lively colours delight the melancholicke eye . . . so not onely cheerefull musicke in a generalitie, but such of that kinde as most rejoyceth is to be sounded in the melancholicke eare.”88 However, this humoral type was wont to shun brilliancy and merriment, including potentially beneficial music. Peacham’s dramatic personification of melancholy (fig. 5.4) could hardly contrast more with his sanguine. This mature figure inhabits a world inverse to that of his younger, more vibrant brother. Instead of prancing in a May landscape in view of a sunlit city, Melancholia sits on an unembellished bench within a wood of autumnal trees. His body is concealed by a plain, flowing gown. Only barren hills stand behind him, and nothing flowers in his landscape. Instead of a lute, Melancholly’s “attributes” are a book and bulging purse to represent his scholarly nature and innate avarice. In place of a lively companion from a species known for sociability crouch “Madge the Owle, and melancholy Pusse, / Light-­loathing creatures, hatefull, ominous.” Such creatures were thought to share his humor, the former additionally termed “Deaths ordinary messenger” and haunter of graveyards. Both were accounted eerie nocturnal singers.89 No blooming roses and lilies contour Melancholly’s cheeks, but “Pale visag’d, of complexion cold and drie, / All solitarie at his studie sits.” If music could dispel his dolor as convention taught, no instrument stands in sight to dissipate his terrestrial vapors or produce subtle, warming fire. Perhaps more ominously, he could not even sing. “His mouth, in signe of silence, up is bound, / For Melancholly loves not many words,” writes Peacham.90 In contrast to the merry sanguine with his lute, this sufferer cannot possibly be interpreted as moderating his own disorder. He is lost in solitude and silence. But perhaps this is not an undesirable state. By Peacham’s century melancholy had far exceeded its ancient etiology in excessive “humor pessimus” to become a multifaceted and sometimes privileged condition.

Beyond Black Bile: Sorrow, Grief, and Musical Remediation The early modern era inherited a diffuse enough understanding of melancholy to necessitate further investigation into its “kinds, causes, symptoms, prognostics, and several cures,” as the title page of Burton’s magisterial compendium puts it. Reconsideration of the Aristotelian-­Hippocratic-­Galenic

Figure 5.4 Emblem “Melancholia.” Henry Peacham, Minerva Britanna, fol. 126. Courtesy of the Newberry Library, Chicago.

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heritage and increasing interest in human interiority positioned melancholy in conjunction with a wider range of disorders, especially mental or spiritual, than the other humors. “Melancholy,” physician Jacques Ferrand (b. 1575?) informs us, “is defined by Galen to be a Dotage without a Fever, accompanied with Feare, and Sadnesse.”91 By Ferrand’s era, the term not only indicated an excess of “blackened blood” or the burnt essences of the other humors that merged with black bile but any malaise characterized by sorrow, gloominess, or what we might call depression. German physician Christoph Wirsung (1500?–­1571) summarizes in English translation that, This word Melancholia is to be taken after two waies: First, for one of the foure humors of a mans bodie, the blacke part of mans blood. . . . Secondly, for a certaine sicknes which annoyeth and weakeneth the braine and minde, with great trouble and heaviness. . . . It is common with all melancholicke persons (be it of whatsoever cause that it will) to be alwaies fearefull and sorowfull.92

This “certaine sicknes” was regarded by various experts as a physiological imbalance to which some individuals were naturally prone or the fault of unfavorable celestial influence, demons, witches, or magicians. It was also considered an inability to restrain the passions, the result of humankind’s fallen state and consequent mortality, the darker aspect of creative genius, a spiritual mania, corruption of rational thought processes, or any imbalance of humors that troubled the mind.93 In spite of its nonspecific nature and varied causes, melancholy remained an extremely serious condition. If untreated, it could prove fatal. It could also lead to madness, with which it was increasingly associated throughout the seventeenth century. An anonymous vernacular medical dictionary of 1657 prefaces the conventional Galenic definition of “Melancholia” as “a doting without a fever, with fear and sadness” by a more generalized reference to mental instability: “a melancholy kind of madness.”94 Diagnosis and treatment of melancholy extended into the realms of astrology and astral magic because of its linkage to the baleful influence of Saturn and into theology because of its relationship to the soul and extreme piety. Medical and astrological convention furthered the Aristotelian conflation of divine frenzy, creative inspiration, introspection, and melancholy, sometimes associated with the eternally striving nature of the hermit or magus.95 During the fifteenth century, melancholia had become embodied as the intellectual visionary or solitary thinker shown in Peacham’s emblem. Lemnius explains that beyond those who suffer from the darkest humor, or pathological fear

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or sadness, melancholy was caused by “long continued studies” which also stimulated the imagination. In addition, he says, it “most concerns those that manage publick employments,” such as the two for whom we’ve already seen music dedicated for recreation. By the seventeenth century, the disorder had become fashionable among self-­proclaimed intellectuals, especially in England and the Netherlands. This trend continued through the Age of Enlightenment as melancholy became even more widely encompassing.96 Melancholy was broadly equated with the sorrow, grief, and despair for which Burwell learned music was a cure and with which we have seen it in commonplace association; around the time Burwell compiled her lute manuscript, John Wilkins (1614–1672) considered melancholy synonymous with “grief ” in his philosophical dictionary.97 As such, it was as much extrinsic “Affection of the mynde” as innate humoral temperament or physiological imbalance. This encouraged wider investigation into causes and cures than medicine alone could offer. Beginning in the 1580s and culminating forty-­plus years later, English thinkers approached the subject from every possible perspective. This coincided with peak years for disputation about music, an increase in printed music books and self-­tutorials, and an explosion of self-­care books and vernacular medical manuals. One result was shared commonplace reference to music as a moderating agent for melancholy disorders, which reinforced the idea across multiple domains of practice. Conduct manuals from Castiglione through Peacham moved from presenting music as “a very great refreshi[ng] of al worldly paines and griefe” to citing medical and theological authority to demonstrate that the art was “an enemy to melancholy and dejection of the mind.”98 In 1584, the year Stubbes emphasized that one commendable end of “true Musicke” was “to drive awaie the fantasies of idle thoughtes, solicitude, care, sorrowe, and such other perturbations and molestations of the mynde,” Cogan couched the same idea as medical advice for vocational scholars: But for a mind wearied with studie, and for one that is melancholike, (as the most part of learned men are) . . . as Aristotle witnesseth, there is nothing more comfortable, or that reviveth the spirits than Musicke.99

Two years later, in his influential Treatise of Melancholy, Bright supported use of music against the disease with the conventional encomiastic assertion of “agreement betwixt the concent of music, and the affection of the mind” because “the mind was nothing else but a kind of harmony.” The same year, The

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Praise of Musicke borrowed the stock terminology of healing to demonstrate that “we dayly proove it in our selves: using Musicke as a medicine for our sorrowe, and as a remedie for our griefe: for as everie disease is cured by his contrarie, so musicke is as an Antipharmacon to sorrowe.”100 Here, medical language and imagery lend authority to the sort of blanket statement found in many of the era’s works about the positive powers of music. By the following decade, Ling had distilled such medical, theological, and moral philosophical ideas to the easily memorizable sentence, “Musick is a comfort to the mind oppressed with melancholie,” and he placed it among commonplaces of the art. His prefatory definition “Of Musicke” reiterates this capacity three times. For him, practical music became “an insearchable and excellent Art . . . which rejoyceth the spirits, & unloadeth griefe from the hart.”101 What had been the province of natural philosophers and professional caretakers of mind and body increasingly merged with the discourse of self-­ diagnosis and maintenance. Any musician could engage in routine self-­care for grief and sorrow. Such practices predated Bright, Cogan, and The Praise of Musicke and continued beyond Burwell. They were referenced in England from the early Tudor era when Henry VIII and his courtiers conjoined music with other salutary habits. Less than a decade after Anne Boleyn’s execution, chronicler Lancelot de Carles retrospectively claimed that she knew well how to play the lute and other instruments to chase away sad thoughts. In 1564 her daughter, Elizabeth I, used the convention of playing her virginals alone “to shun melancholy” as an excuse to be overheard by Scottish ambassador Sir James Melvill. In a letter dated October 18, 1580, Sir Philip Sidney advised his brother Robert, Earl of Leicester, then in Germany, to “take a delight to keep and increase your music. You will not believe what a want I find of it, in my melancholy times.”102 By 1665, that shrewd musical businessman, John Playford, used the language of medicine to market such antipharmacons as ready-­ made “pills” in the easily accessible genres of ballads, songs, and catches. The title page of the resultant work reinforces the Hippocratic-­Galenic heritage of music’s position among dining, drinking, dancing, and merry company as well as the astrological-­affective connection of mirth to Jupiter through “Jovial Songs” (fig. 5.5). The idea quickly caught on, and, in the tradition of Burton’s Anatomy, the volume went through multiple augmented editions in rapid succession. By the end of the century, Playford’s son, Henry, expanded to purgative “pills” in form of witty lyrics set to simple melodies “for either Voice or Instrument,” some preexisting, some newly composed. “Fitted to all Humours,” proclaims the title page, which also includes the verse

Figure 5.5 John Playford, An Antidote Against Melancholy: Made Up in Pills (London: John Playford, 1669), title page. Call # D66B. Used by permission of the Folger Shakespeare Library under a Creative Commons Attribution-­ShareAlike 4.0 International License.

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He is the best Physician you will find, That thus to pleasing Mirth can fix your mind; That every Temper, every sort can please, With such variety of Songs as these.103

Playford and Playford thus continued the tradition of allowing potential “patients” to choose the variety and dose of music optimally suited to their temperament, skill, and immediate affective requirement. As music became more widely referenced in relation to melancholy, it morphed into iconic shorthand for inspired aspects of the disorder. As the gloomy condition acquired cachet and a certain amount of affectability among a self-­styled intellectual and artistic elite, more products represented and reinforced this affinity. In his 1618 Oxford comedy Technogamia: or the Marriages of the Arts, Church of England clergyman and poet Barten Holyday (1593–1661) presents Melancholico as a servant to Poeta, who falls in love with Musica, servant to Astronomia; the couple marry before the close of the play.104 Playwright Thomas Nabbes (1604/5–1641) unites the two concepts through personification of Melancholy in his 1637 “morall maske” Microcosmus. The character is presented as “A Musician. His complexion[,] haire and clothes black: a Lute in his hand,” a fitting offspring for Holyday’s allegorical couple. An analogous figure with moping mouth, eyes hidden by a wide-­ brimmed hat, stagily posed between lute and music, had shown up against a dark background nine years earlier as “Inamorato” on the frontispiece to the third edition of Burton’s Anatomy.105 Recreational lutenists and others who chose to assume such characters, or to affect themselves or listeners with sorrowful passions, had ample choice of prepackaged material. Most famously, John Dowland, international lute virtuoso and musical innovator, revealed such a cultivated persona through the exquisitely anguished songs and instrumental music he composed and marketed for intimate performing forces, including a “Melancholy Galliard” and the punningly eponymous “Semper Dowland, semper dolens” (Always Dowland, always doleful). A number of his melancholic pieces encode occult philosophies and deep religious pieties for those who chose to look for them between their music and poetry or within the music itself. True connoisseurs could also find in them subtle homage to cutting-­edge works by Orlando di Lasso and Luca Marenzio. Like similarly sorrowful works by such native composers as John Attey, William Corkine, John Danyel, Robert Jones, Thomas Morley, and Philip Rosseter, Dowland’s push the bounds of chromaticism and other expressive devices beyond the era’s mainstream compositional conventions.106 Consequently, they en-

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hance textual affect and challenge recreational performers beyond the level of simpler diatonic pieces. That melancholy musician with lute in hand may have coded as a musical sophisticate. The stock image of the recreational musician as melancholic also inflected other musical products. A marketing device for William Barley’s New Booke of Tabliture of 1596, for instance, was that the contents could provide not only a taste of the ravishing sweet science that was music but that the art was “the sovereign salve of a melancholy and troubled minde.” Edward Lake praises John Hilton’s 1627 Ayres or Fa La’s by claiming that they “throw / The blackest Melancholy downe below,” for which he will sing them preventively.107 Wither’s emblem of David harping beneath the light of divine presence, surrounded by the epigram “Musica, Serva Dei” (fig. 1.2), blames unqualified hatred of music on melancholy. The author recommends that those afflicted seek a cure before the condition leads to “dangerous folly.” Here, the untrustworthy man who has no music in himself is the melancholic, requiring music sanctioned by the true Author of physic. Such a sufferer would not need to look very far for therapy, own a lute, or be trained to tackle unexpected changes in harmony, melody, or meter. In the preface to the 1633 edition of his Whole Booke of Psalmes, Ravenscroft recommends fitting “every Heart to that Psalme, which it will most affect,” with emphasis on the “speciall Tunes, proper to the nature of each Psalme.” A melancholy heart would presumably be most affected by the “Psalmes of Tribulation [to] be sung with a low voice and long measure” unless it sought purgation. In that case the singer would be guided to choose “Psalmes of Rejoycing [to] be sung with a loude voice, [and] a swift and jocund measure.”108 “Myrth is in Musicall instrumentes, and ghostly and godly singing,” wrote Boorde generations earlier when such easily accessible vernacular psalms were just catching on in England.109 Advice on music for melancholy generally accounted for the sufferer’s unique constitution, musical ability, and aesthetic taste. It permitted her or him to remain solitary or practice among others, and it reinforced the position of both disease and mitigating agent between bodily humors and extrinsic influence. According to Wright, any appealing music could potentially “rectifie the blood and spirits, and consequently digest melancholy, and bring the body into a good temper.”110 The most thorough early modern English exploration of this multifarious bond between music and melancholy, found in Robert Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy, emphasizes its diversity. Burton’s compilation not only mentions music repeatedly and in varied contexts but also devotes an entire subsection of “The Second Partition[:] The Cure of Melancholie” to the sounding art as antidote. The discussion of “Musicke a

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Remedy” is section 2 (the Hippocratic-­Galenic nonnaturals), membrane 6 (“Perturbations of the Mind Rectified”), subsection 3, which directly follows “Helpe from Friends” and leads thematically into subsection 4, “Mirth and merry Company, faire Objects, Remedies.” Typical of medical and philosophical reference to music for health and healing, Burton never recommends repertory, genre, or performing forces. He concentrates on the range of authoritative discourse about music in relation to sorrowful passions, overlapping, as does Bright, with general approbation of the art and its powers over mind and body. Such emphasis on nuggets of wisdom concerning music, from which readers could cull the most personally significant for future reference or reiteration, was especially suitable to a work intended to help heal melancholy through active, engaged processes of reading, writing, and cogitation.111 Burton, who held a Bachelor of Divinity as well as BA and MA degrees from Oxford University, unifies the sort of medical knowledge of music presented by physicians like Boorde, Bright, and Cogan with theology in the manner of Wright and with the kind of philological and philosophical learning reiterated by such men as Bacon, Case, Peacham, and the author of The Praise of Musicke. Burton displays encyclopedic familiarity with commonplaces about the powers of music as he presents the art as a cure, or occasionally cause, of melancholy. In the formulaic style of a praise or defense, he moves from the range of supporting authority to personal opinion, implying that to counter him was to go against the collective expertise of past and present sages. “Many and sundry are the meanes, which Philosophers and Physitians have prescribed to exhilerate a sorrowfull heart, to divert those fixed and intent cares and meditations, which in this malady so much offend,” he begins, “but in my judgement none so present, none so powerfull, none so apposite as a cup of strong drinke, mirth, musicke, and merry company.”112 Thus, the diligent scholar informs us from the outset that music is the best remedy for melancholy, especially in combination with complementary practices involving other sensory domains. To reiterate the point, the next subsection (4) opens by stating that “Mirth and merry company may not be separated from Musicke, both concurring & necessarily required in this business [i.e., relieving melancholy].” Burton reminds readers that the collected wisdom of the West supports his conclusions about music as a moderating agent for the disorder. He incorporates paraphrases, direct quotations, summaries, and the names of numerous previous experts on the use of music in the treatment of melancholy, favoring classical writers and more recent Continental thinkers who incorporated ancient wisdom. Individual statements are pithy and easily quotable, mostly in English but sometimes Latin, and Burton

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names ancients who originated or famously followed given advice. When he digresses to wider contemporary debates, he quickly brings his reader back to the main topic. “But to leave all declamatory speeches in praise of divine Musicke,” he says after his own summary tribute to the art, “I will confine my selfe to my proper subject: besides that excellent power it [music] hath to expel many other diseases, it is a sovereign remedy against Despaire and Melancholy, and will drive away the divell himselfe.”113 No wonder the Playfords succeeded with an antimelancholic gimmick to package mirthful songs. If Burton has an overarching point, it is that the efficacy of music in melancholy matters derives from the breadth of its powers, especially direct physiological effects and secret sympathies with the human organism. He retraces the auditory pathway through ears to spirits, arteries, heart, mind, and soul. He reiterates classical and more recent commonplaces that music benefits soldiers, children, common laborers, and others whose daily work is physical, repetitive, and may involve fear or boredom. He does not enter the debate over whether voices or instruments are superior in modifying troubling affections, but he clarifies that “bee it instrumental, vocall, with strings, winde,” music dispels the symptoms of melancholy and such related conditions as grief, fear, cruelty, and hatred. This is due to its motion, not its medium. However produced, it “erects” and “makes nimble” the mind. It also “animates,” “revives,” “ravishes,” “elevates,” “stirs,” and “rouses,” all by similitude to fluid bodily faculties and the embodied soul. On classical authority, it causes living things, including plants and fish, to move, and even makes “stocks and stones” do the same. Burton juxtaposes the Pythagorean-­Platonic notion that the soul is music with the idea that the airy substance of music literally moves mind and body by means of corporeal spirits. Music thus moderates the passions, perturbations, or affections by means of sympathy with the soul that might recall higher harmony or as a result of direct action on ears, arteries, vital and animal spirits, mind, and embodied soul that might be brought in tune.114 Burton’s summary of the effects of music on the human body, mind, soul, and passions carefully points out, as do Bright’s and Wright’s, that the art does not produce uniform or even completely predictable response. The majority of creatures are elated from depressed states or calmed from frantic fits by music; key evidence lies in David’s cure of Saul, anecdotes of classical healers and their patients, and tales of animal response to the art. But Burton’s careful recounting of past and present wisdom about “Musicke a Remedy” allows for notable exceptions: in some cases, music causes, rather than mitigates, melancholy. This is especially so for men suffering from erotic melancholy,

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in whom music will trigger emotional distress and physical breakdown. Unspecified others will be made “mad as a tyger” by attempted musical cure. In what seems at first a paradox, Burton explains that “Many men are melancholy by hearing Musicke, but it is a pleasing melancholy that it causeth, and therefore to such as are discontent, in woe, feare, sorrow, or dejected, it is a most present remedy, it expels cares, alters their grieved mindes, and easeth in an instant.”115 Psychiatrist W. H. Trethowan has explained more recently, referring to the lingering, haunting quality that still loans distinction to some musical works, that such pleasing melancholy may simply be “that degree of affective warmth, which, together with despair, is so characteristic of the creations of those who really know what melancholy means, and which, when musically expressed, immediately arouses empathy.” Historian and music scholar Michael P. Steinberg goes so far as to suggest that melancholy, defined as a “mood” associated with loss, memory, and nostalgia, is in essence the condition of music: “all music” (emphasis Steinberg’s). Psychologist of music Renee Timmers adds that “‘Sadness’ is reported relatively frequently when listening to classical music, and yet such listening may be enjoyable.” Participants in one study reported feeling less alone in their grief, or more strongly aware of “the value and purpose of life,” when they experienced sad music.116 Perhaps this bittersweet unity of vicarious despair and empathic pleasure was meant in Burton’s day to come from such works as the “Image of Melancholly” pavan from Antony Holborne’s 1599 print collection of Pavans, Galliards, Almains, and other short Æirs . . . for Viols, Violins, or other Musicall Winde Instruments (ex. 5.1), or John Bull’s manuscript “Melancholy Pavan” and “Melancholy Galliard” for solo keyboard.117 Holborne’s title suggests inducement of melancholy through imagination, or the cognitive pathway through which sensory information was received and passed to the mind for processing. Arranged for a consort of five instruments to be chosen by its performers, such a work would enable sharing of sweet sorrow among intimate company, each with his or her own instrument, part, and partbook to collectively kindle affect between fingers (and lips and tongue for wind instruments), ear, and interior faculties. Like Sir John Davies’s description of the bodily motions meant kinesthetically to bring to life the sort of dance that inspired this more abstract piece, it is “full of change and rare varieties.”118 Like any pavan, it is “solemn, grave, and slow,” reinforcing Bright’s assessment that “solemne, and still” music would increase rather than cure melancholy. The same physician explains that melancholics are most satisfied with easily discernable meter and melody, “except the melancholicke have skill in musicke,

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and require a deeper harmonie.”119 “The Image of Melancholly” would appeal to a skilled sufferer who could read a part confidently enough to handle syncopation and sustained dissonance and to listen closely to other performers. The piece is mostly in D major with some inflection of Dorian mode, and it modulates through strikingly chromatic passages into G major and A major as well as back to its tonic. Its major tonality reminds us that, for sixteenth- and

“ Comfortable . . . in Sicknes and in Health ”  259

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seventeenth-­century listeners and performers, musical codes for sorrow and joy were based on diatonicism and chromaticism rather than the later major-­ minor binary. Over three-­quarters of a century before Butler made a similar if more elaborate point, influential Italian music theorist and composer Gioseffo Zarlino explained that “il genere Chromatico fa tristo effetto” (the chromatic sort [of music] causes a sad effect), which effect Morley later expanded for an English readership to include “griefe, weeping, sighes, sorrows, sobbes,

260  Chapter five

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and such like.”120 The regular duple pulse of more utilitarian pavans is complicated in “The Image of Melancholly” by metrical displacement through syncopation. This piece is meant for playing or listening, not for dancing. None of its five voices carries a defined melody, all five trade slightly varied motivic gestures even though the bass has a predominantly harmonic function, and overall motion is polyphonic rather than homophonic. These features might further appeal to the kind of skilled musician referenced by Bright—but not

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so highly skilled that he or she would need to play speedy runs or divisions. In contrast, Bull’s “Melancholy Pavan” and its paired galliard require rapid, virtuosic chromatic passages traded between the keyboardist’s right and left hands. This thematically linked pair challenge a more accomplished solo musician while providing fine-­motor exercise, presumably warming and stirring the thickened blood of a melancholic performer. The pavan and galliard both hover between D major and minor, with modulation to A major and G major and minor as well as more distant tonal areas.121 Both Holborne’s and Bull’s pavans adhere to Morley’s description of the genre, considered “next in gravery and goodness unto [the fantasy].” He explains the “pavane” as “a kind of staide musicke . . . most commonlie made of three straines, whereof everie straine is plaid or song twice. . . . In this you may not so much insist in following the point as in a fantasie: but it shal be inough to touch it once and so away to some close.”122 Holborne’s and Bull’s meet these criteria, the latter especially less restricted. Morley instructs that “after every pavan usually set a galliard (that is, a kind of musicke we made out of the other),” which “is a lighter and more stirring kinde of dauncing then the pavane consisting of the same number of straines.” Davies considers this

262  Chapter five

genre “lively” and “masculine.”123 Bull provides such a thematically linked galliard in its typical triple meter. Holborne’s performers, in contrast, would be required to supply their own; his is truly a self-­contained “image” of melancholy founded on pavan form. The top four parts of Holborne’s piece reiterate unexpectedly and in different rhythmic configurations the descending four-­note “tear” motive most famous from Dowland’s ayre “Flow My Tears” and “Lachrimae” pavans; Holborne’s performers must collaborate to let the work emerge. Bull’s solo is more motivically free and fantastical. Holborne’s is marked by sudden harmonic change chord by chord and Bull’s by rapid chromatic motives that pass in and out of dissonance with notes sustained by the other hand. Both follow without text what Butler recommended for setting “the words of effeminate lamentations, sorrowful passions, and complaints,” which “ar fitly exprest by the inordinate half-­notes (such as ar the small keys of the Virginals) which change the direct order of the Scale; flattening the Notes naturally sharp and sharping them which are naturally flat.” Holborne’s ensemble piece uses the “slow Bindings and discording Cadences” he recommends for “those in longer time.”124 It also encodes musically what Mildmay observes in her medical papers as telltale signs of melancholy: “strange imaginations [i.e., original motivic material including chromaticism] . . . pulse slow, voice base [i.e., low tessitura].”125 Both pavans are characterized by alternately falling and rising stepwise melodic motives, Holborne’s lingeringly slow and Bull’s briskly ornamental. These add a level of complexity to the sensorimotor metaphors of bodily orientation by which up signifies happy and down is sad, giving a sense of emotional instability.126 The harmonic changes in each piece, often unprepared if part of the convention of setting sadness, perhaps represent the “deeper harmony” required of the musically skillful melancholic Bright describes. The rapid motivic reversals and sudden shifts in harmony reinforce musically the instability Wirtsung attributes to melancholics as well as the fantasies and unfettered imaginings that characterize the medical disorder: and if you demaund of them [melancholike persons] the occasion, they know not to declare or alledge any occasion unto you: they be so full of fantasies and marveilous imaginations. Otherwhiles they be weary of their life; nevertheles they shun death: they complayne not any otherwise but that they are persecuted and murthered, or that some wilde beasts will devoure them; yea some be also moved in their wits; albeit that they feare death much, neverthelesse sometimes destroy themselves. Other also being infected with this disease, they fall into ridiculous fantasies.127

“ Comfortable . . . in Sicknes and in Health ”  263

Bull’s keyboard solo encodes this range of unsettled emotionality through its fantastic style, unexpected harmonies, and juxtaposition of sustained notes and rapid runs. Holborne’s slower-­moving ensemble piece further enables the incongruity of (merry?) company generating shared sweet sorrow. The same range of stylistic features, especially expressive chromaticism and sudden reversals of downward motion, are also evident in Dowland’s manuscript “Melancholy Galliard” for lute, centered on the unusual key of F-­sharp minor, and Hume’s printed “I Am Melancholy” for lira viol, in F major. Both of these, like Bull’s virtuosic solo, move through clashing dissonances and require rapid finger work over sustained chords, encoding both the intellectual pleasure and physiological eradication of melancholy.128 For those who could, like Jaques from Shakespeare’s As You Like It, “sucke melancholly out of a song / As a Weazel sucks eggs,” there was ample choice of sorrowful text set to music. Such is especially abundant among lute ayres printed between 1597 and 1622, the intimate, personalized vocal-­instrumental genre whose commercial rise coincided with growing interest in melancholy and other affective disorders.129 Most collections of ayres offer a wide range of texts and types of music from which performers could suit their dominant humor or momentary affect. The same year As You Like It was entered in the Stationers Register, however, London printer Thomas East, “the asigne[e] of Thomas Morley,” issued Dowland’s Second Booke of Songs or Ayres. Its poetry is dominated by reference to sighs, tears, spiritual torment, and eternal night. These are brought to musical life by lingering suspensions, descending motives, and other affective devices of the sort used in melancholy instrumental music, which illustrate the rapid textual shifts between hope and despair. Most of these presumably “pleasingly melancholy” songs would have been accessible to moderately competent recreational musicians as indicated by their limited melodic range and the predominant metrical and rhythmic simplicity offsetting striking dissonances and occasional syncopation. The collection is dedicated to Lucy (Harrington) Russell, Countess of Bedford, patron of the arts, and, according to Dowland, knowledgeable in music. The composer states in his dedication that “Musicke . . . in the judgement of ancient times, was so proper an excelencie to Women, that the Muses tooke their name from it.”130 Along with psalms, closet drama, prayers, and solo instrumental music, ayres stood among performative genres that enabled women to eke out intimate creative and potentially therapeutic space of the sort used by Elizabeth I, Hoby, and Mildmay. Songs, dances, and more abstract instrumental pieces evoking sorrow would have provided psychophysical benefits and aesthetic pleasure to women as well as men and per-

264  Chapter five

haps enable them to reclaim in private domestic space their gender’s ancient role as sovereign mourners.131 Recreational lutenist Jane Pickering[e], who kept a manuscript of instrumental music during the height of popularity of the printed ayre, included “Lacrime by dowlande,” “Dowlandes Lamentation Semp dolent,” and “The Countiss of pembruth fineralle by anthony holborne” (Holborne’s pavan “The Countess of Pembroke’s Funerals,” probably written the year Mary Sidney Herbert, Countess of Pembroke, lost her brother Philip, her father, and her mother) among a range of dance tunes, ballad tunes, abstract “toyes,” and pieces evoking the more manly recreations of hunting and battle, presumably to suit all her moods and keep her fingers nimble.132 Even though specific musical conventions were understood to simulate joy or sorrow, choice of music for melancholy matters remained subjective. Each human organism needed to maintain its unique temperament, and, as Bright especially understood, aesthetic taste and musical habits were at least as important as bodily “Thynges Naturall.” Even as fantasies and fantastic dance pieces referencing melancholy entered circulation, he emphasizes that for all but the most musically sophisticated sufferers, such pieces and equally abstract “dumps,” whose semantic classification suggests fantasy and melancholy, would harm. He acknowledges that the efficacy of music in affective disorders was beyond rational analysis and came from whatever worked in any given case. “For that which reason worketh by a more evident way,” says he, “that musicke as it were a magicall charme bringeth to passe in the mindes of men.”133 Wright recognizes that as other sense receptors were delighted by a range of objects, so were the ears. In yet another conflation of music and nourishment, he notes that where different people incline toward “so many thousand sauces, and commixtions of spices with fish, flesh, and fruit,” musical preference was also a matter of taste and perhaps prior experience. “Let a good and Godly man heare musicke,” he observes, and hee will lift up his heart to heaven; let a bad man heare the same, and hee will convert it to lust: Let a souldiour heare a trumpet or drum, and his bloud will boile and bend to battell; let a clowne heare the same, and he will fall a dauncing; let the common people heare the like, and they will fall a gazing, or laughing. . . . So that in this, mens affections and dispositions, by meanes of musicke, may stir up divers passions, as seeing we daily prove the like. True it is, that one kind of musicke may be more apt to one passion than another, as also one object of sight is more proportionat to stirre up love,

“ Comfortable . . . in Sicknes and in Health ”  265

hatred, or pleasure, or sadnesse than enother. Whereof the natural disposition of a man, his custome or exercise, his virtue or vice, for the most part these sounds diversificate passions: for I cannot imagine, that if a man never had heard a trumpet or drum in his life, that he would at the first hearing be moved to warres.134

Bacon fundamentally concurs. “Tunes have a Predisposition to the Motion of the Spirits in themselves,” he observes, “But yet it hath been noted, that though this variety of Tunes, doth dispose the Spirits to variety of Passions, conforme unto them; yet generally, Musick feedeth that disposition of the Spirits which it findeth.”135 Decades earlier, The Praise of Musicke had similarly concluded that music merely enhanced participants’ innate disposition, leading to harm, healing, or censure according to native inclination and previous musical experience.136 Perhaps this is why jovial ballads, virtuosic dance pieces, bawdy catches, psalms of tribulation or rejoicing, and ayres of any sort could be equally efficacious in alleviating the dangers of melancholy: each would restore an individual’s temperament as he or she knew best. Creators and marketers of music were not only aware of the range of musical “pills” potentially able to modify troubling affections, rebalance humors, and keep other “Thynges Naturall” such as members, operations, and spirits in working order. They seemed cognizant of what modern scholars recognize as emotional contagion or amplification through music, enabling transfer of affect from creator to recipient.137 For Descartes, music was no magical charm but an objective physical force to which the body responds by sympathetic motion: Now, concerning those various Affections, or Passions, which Musick, by its various Measures can excite in us; we say, in the Generall, that a slow measure doth excite in us gentle, and sluggish motions, such as a kind of Languor, Sadnesse, Fear, Pride, and other heavy, and dull Passions: and a more nimble and swift measure doth, proportionately, excite more nimble and sprightly Passions, such as Joy, Anger, Courage, &c.138

Musicians were thus positioned between healers and inflamers of the passions, drawn toward genres that would reinforce or restore their inherent constitutions. For those who learned that music revealed the secrets of their hearts or details of upbringing and for whom the physicality of music could tune and temper them as they wished, the art must have enabled continuous

266  Chapter five

self-­fashioning as well as psychophysical maintenance. Morley observes what Bacon does, but with reference to the humors in place of spirits, and musical creation in place of consumership. “As there be divers kinds of musick,” he explains, so will som mens humors be more inclined to one kind then to another. . . . Some will excell in composition of Motets, & being set or injoyned to make a Madrigal wil be verie far fro[m] the nature of it, likewise som wil be so possessed with the Madrigal humor, as no man may be compared with the[m] in that kind, and yet being enjoyned to compose a motet or some sad & heavie musick, will be far fro[m] the excellencie which they had in their owne veine.139

An expert composer would thus transfer his own temperament to music, and the resultant work would potentially transmit it further. Where Morley connects innate humor to its expression in music, Ravenscroft shifts emphasis to the affections over which the composer maintains power by mastery of his craft. He classifies the composer as an “Affector” as well as “Professor,” whose duty is to move the mind or soul after striking the senses. The highest praise Ravenscroft gives to colleague John Bennet is that beginning with understanding of his chosen text, he transfers specific affection to his work and thus infects the recipient with something of himself. “[In] all his workes, the very life of that Passion, which the Ditty sounded, is so truly exprest,” says Ravenscroft, “as if he had measured it alone by his owne Soule, and invented no other Harmony, then his own sensible feeling in that Affection did affoord him.”140 Thus, Bennet (or any other skillful composer) creates a product that is both efficacious and authentic. In promoting the songs he offers for the health-­ maintaining activities of drinking, boisterous recreation, and “enamouring,” Ravenscroft begins with their airy substance and moves to their stock position between sensibility, the metaphysics of number and proportion, and textual expression: Their Composure I dare warrant, ’tis not onely of Ayre, made for some small tickling of the outward Sence alone, but a great deale more solide, and sweetly united in Number, Measures, and Nature of the Ditty.

He proceeds to explain how these utilitarian songs please the ear and satisfy the mind through composers’ attention to detail by which related affect is transmitted and received:

“ Comfortable . . . in Sicknes and in Health ”  267

The earnest affections which a man hath, in the use of such Recreations as they are made for, are so fully exprest in them, for Tact, Prolation, and Diminution, that not onely the Ignorant Eare must needs be pleased with them, for their Variety of sweet Straynes, and the Humorous Fantastick eare satisfied, in the Jocundity of their many Changes, but also the Judicious hearer will finde in them, which passes the Outward sence, strikes a rare delight of Passion upon the Mind it selfe, that attends them.141

By means of carefully selected works, Ravenscroft enables the consumer to combine therapy and pleasure by exercising lungs and fine-­motor skills, ear and faculties of judgment, directing the passions of the mind, and either imagining or accompanying hygienic full-­body activities. Their format as part-­songs further encourages the therapeutic sociability of merry company. Once again, the well-­documented if nonspecific capacities of music to restore or maintain mental and physical health enable individuals to temper self and surroundings as they see fit.

Acknowledgments

I am profoundly grateful to the institutions and individuals who have provided support over the many years this book was in progress, during which it metamorphosed from a planned collection of edited texts to its current form. First and foremost, I thank the Mary Ingraham Bunting Institute of Radcliffe College for awarding me a fellowship that came with a supportive environment for taking intellectual chances early in my career. It was only through being able to read hundreds of sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century English books and manuscripts on all topics at the Houghton Library while participating in a diverse community of artists and scholars that the true aims and dimensions of this project began to emerge. I also want to thank Lewis Lockwood for making me feel welcome at Harvard University’s music department even though it was not my official academic home. Some years later, a whirlwind of funding from the American Council of Learned Societies, the British Academy, and the National Endowment for the Humanities enabled me to spend time as a fellow, first at the Folger Shakespeare Library and later at the Newberry Library, and to travel to the United Kingdom for additional research. The book is much stronger for all of these. I am especially grateful to Annegret Fauser for sponsoring me for the British Academy Visiting Fellowship. I cannot thank enough the staff from the Folger and the Newberry for making my residencies extremely pleasant. I hope that by showcasing some of the treasures from both among the illustrations in this book I can encourage other scholars to use their collections. Additional libraries whose staff I want to thank for enabling access to early modern books and manuscripts include the Bienecke Rare Book and Manuscript 269

270  Acknowledgments

Library at Yale University, the Bodleian Library at Oxford University (with special thanks to Margaret Bent for helping me secure a reader’s card and feel welcome at Oxford), the British Library, Cambridge University Libraries, the Huntington Library, the Library of Congress, the US National Gallery of Art Library, and the Wellcome Library. Since modern scholarship is almost as much a sociable enterprise as an intellectual one, my debt to colleagues, especially those who helped me understand disciplines and discourses distant from English music and literary studies ca. 1600, is profound. Among the many who helped along the way and to whom I owe special thanks for inspiring me to think more deeply about aspects of this book are Candace Bailey, Bonnie Blackburn, Leslie Dunn, Kent Emery, Penelope Gouk, Margaret Hannay, Rebecca Herissone, Peregrine Horden, Carol Kaske, Katherine Larson, Carole Levin, Craig Monson, Joseph Ortiz, Jessie Ann Owens, Mary Springfels, Gary Tomlinson, Sarah Williams, Amanda Eubanks Winkler, Jennifer Wood, Carla Zecher, Georgianna Ziegler, and the two anonymous readers for the University of Chicago Press who commented so thoughtfully and in such great detail on the penultimate version. The Renaissance Society of America, Shakespeare Association of America, and Society for Seventeenth-­Century Music provided excellent venues for presenting and receiving feedback on early versions of some content of this book. I am deeply indebted to the unwavering commitment and patience shown to the project by Marta Tonegutti, music studies editor at the University of Chicago Press, for her constant encouragement as the book came together through all stages of the submission, editorial, and production process. Special thanks must also go to editorial associate Tristan Bates, production editor Tamara Ghattas, and designer Isaac Tobin for guiding the book into print, and to promotions manager Meredith Nini for launching it into the world. I am also grateful to Steve LaRue, who copyedited the manuscript on behalf of the press. Finally, I am beholden to the Alice Kaplan Institute for the Humanities of Northwestern University and the American Musicological Society for providing generous publication subventions. Finally, I am eternally grateful for the unfailing support of my husband, Anthony Elmendorf, and for the companionship provided by our cats, Puck and Phantom, during the many nights I spent writing when most humans sleep.

Notes

Introduction 1

N[icholas] L[ing], Politeuphuia (London: J. R[oberts] for Nicholas Ling, 1597), fol. 196v.

2

The other three were William Hunnis’s Seven Sobs of a Sorrowfull Soule for Sinne, Morley’s Canzonets or Little Short Aers, and Morley’s Canzonets or Little Short Songs; see Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Short, Peter,” by Miriam Miller, accessed April 23, 2019, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com.

3

Francis Bacon, Essays (London: Humphrey Hooper, 1597), fol. 10; William Shakespeare, An Excellent Conceited Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet (London: John Danter, 1597); and The Tragedie of King Richard the Second (London: Valentine Simms for Andrew Wise, 1597).

4

N[icholas] L[ing], Politeuphuia. Witts Common wealth, 2nd ed. (London: J. R[oberts] for Nicholas Ling, 1598); and Wits Common-­Wealth, newly corrected and enlarged (London: W. Taylor, 1722). “Of Musicke” in the former is fols. 195v–­197. For more on Ling and his influence, see Gerald D. Johnson, “Nicholas Ling, Publisher 1580–1607,” Studies in Bibliography 38 (1985): 203–14.

5 Ling, Politeuphuia (1597), sig. A3r–­v; (1598), sig. A3. 6

Thomas Morley, A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (London: Peter Short, 1597), 1.

7

John H. Long, Shakespeare’s Use of Music: A Study of the Music and Its Performance in the Original Production of Seven Comedies (Gainesville: University of Florida Press, 1955), xiii.

8

Gretchen Ludke Finney, Musical Backgrounds for English Literature 1580–1650 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1962); and John Hollander, The Untuning of the Sky: Ideals of Music in English Poetry, 1500–1700 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961).

271

272  Notes to Pages 3– 7 9

See especially David Lindley, Shakespeare and Music Arden Shakespeare (London: Thomson Learning, 2006); Erin Minear, Reverberating Song in Shakespeare and Milton: Language, Memory and Musical Representation (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2011); Joseph M. Ortiz, Broken Harmony: Shakespeare and the Politics of Music (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2011); and Christopher R. Wilson and Michela Calore, Music in Shakespeare: A Dictionary (London: Thoemmes Continuum, 2005), viii–­ix.

10 Gina Bloom, Voice in Motion: Staging Gender, Shaping Sound in Early Modern

England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007); Wes Folkerth, The Sound of Shakespeare (London: Routledge, 2002); Bruce R. Smith, The Acoustic World of Early Modern England: Attending to the O-­Factor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999); and Amanda Eubanks Winkler, O Let Us Howle Some Heavy Note: Music for Witches, the Melancholic, and the Mad on the Seventeenth-­Century English Stage (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006).

11

William Chappell, The Ballad Literature and Popular Music of the Olden Time (London: Chappell, [1855–59]); and Christopher Marsh, Music and Society in Early Modern England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010).

12 Brian Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture from Antiquity to the Enlightenment

(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015); Penelope Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic in Seventeenth-­Century England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999); “Music, Melancholy, and Medical Spirits in Early Modern Thought,” in Music as Medicine, ed. Peregrine Horden (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 173–94; “Some English Theories of Hearing in the Seventeenth Century: Before and after Descartes,” in The Second Sense, ed. Charles Burnett, Michael Fend, and Penelope Gouk (London: Warburg Institute, 1991), 95–113; and Gary Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic: Toward a Historiography of Others (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993).

13 Peter Harrison, The Territories of Science and Religion (Chicago: University of Chi-

cago Press, 2015), 11–18; and Jason Ā. Josephson-­Storm, The Myth of Disenchantment (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2017), 40–44.

14 Michael D. Bristol, Big-­Time Shakespeare (London: Routledge, 1996), 57–58; and

Wendy Wall, “Authorship and the Material Conditions of Writing,” The Cambridge Companion to English Literature 1500–1600, ed. Arthur F. Kinney (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 64 and 83.

Chapter One 1

William Byrd and T[homas] Watson, A Gratification unto Master John Case, for his learned booke, lately made in the praise of Musicke (London: Thomas East, the assigne of W[illiam] Byrd, 1589), bassus, Oxford Bodleian Library Bodley Don.a.3 (3); and cantus secundus, Cambridge University Libraries. Watson’s poem, complete with its heading “A gratification unto Mr John Case, for his learned Booke, lately made in the prayes of musicke,” is included in Oxford Bodleian Library MS Rawl. Poet. 148, fol. 47r–­v. See also Morrison Comegys Boyd, Elizabethan Music and Musical Criticism, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1962), 32; William Byrd, Madrigals, Songs and Canons, The Byrd Edition, vol. 16, ed. Philip Brett (London: Stainer and Bell, 1976), 16–32 and 188; John Harley, William Byrd: Gentleman of the Chapel Royal (Aldershot: Scolar Press; Brookfield,

Notes to Pages 7–10  273

VT: Ashgate, 1997), 275, 281, and 296; Kerry McCarthy, Byrd (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2013), 248; and Jeremy L. Smith, Thomas East and Music Publishing in Renaissance England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 56. 2

The Praise of Musicke (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1586). Watson was first to attribute the work to Case, and Brett demonstrates how his poem is based on close reading of it, Byrd, Madrigals, Songs and Canons, 16–32. See also Howard B. Barnett, “John Case—An Elizabethan Music Scholar,” Music and Letters 50 (1969): 254–60; J. W. Binns, Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England: The Latin Writings of the Age (Leeds: Francis Cairns, 1990), 436–43; Boyd, Elizabethan Music and Musical Criticism, 31–33 and 292–300; Albert Chatterly, “Thomas Watson, Poet—And Musician?,” Musical Times 148 (2007): 82–83; Hyun-­Ah Kim, ed., The Praise of Musicke, 1586: An Edition with Commentary (London, Routledge, 2018), 27–35; Ellen T. Knight, “‘The Praise of Musicke’: John Case, Thomas Watson, and William Byrd,” Current Musicology 30 (1980): 37–51; William Ringler, “The Praise of Music by John Case,” Papers of the Bibliographical Society of America 54 (1960): 119–21; and Charles B. Schmitt, John Case and Aristotelianism in Renaissance England (Montreal: McGill-­Queens University Press, 1983), 256–57.

3

John Case, Apologia musices (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1588); Sphaera civitatis (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1588), 708–40. Ross W. Duffin presents evidence that the late sixteenth- and early seventeenth-­century English musical community may have considered Case the author of The Praise; Duffin, The Music Treatises of Thomas Ravenscroft (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2014), 63n37. For the most comprehensive summary of the controversy and latest thinking concerning authorship of the treatise, see Kim, Praise of Musicke, 27–49. I thank James W. Binns for sharing his in-­progress translation of Case’s Apologia with me. Another translation is available online, ed. and trans. Dana F. Sutton, http://​www​.philological​.bham​.ac​ .uk​/music/).

4 Byrd, Madrigals, Songs and Canons, 16–32. 5

Katherine Butler, “In Praise of Music: Motets, Inscriptions and Music Philosophy in Robert Dow’s Partbooks,” Early Music 45 (2017): 89–101.

6

Ralph Lever, The Art of Reason (London: H. Bynneman, 1573), sig. A.

7

Anicius Manlius [Torquantus] Severinus Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, trans. Calvin Bower and ed. Claude Palisca (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), 50–51.

8

Thomas Morley, A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (London: Peter Short, 1597), p. 1. The last continuous reprint is “London: now reprinted [by George Bigg] for William Randall successor to the late Mr. J. Walsh,” 1771.

9

Baldassarre Castiglione, conte, Il libro del cortegiano ([Florence]: [Philippo di Giunta], [1531]), fol. 47r–­v. The first English-­language version was The Courtyer of Count Balthesar Castilio, trans. Thomas Hoby (London: Wyllyam Seres, 1561). Further editions appeared in 1577, 1587, and 1603; and a Latin translation directly from the Italian was published as De curiali, trans Bartholomew Clerke (London: J. Dayum, 1571), reprinted in 1577, 1585, 1593, and 1603.

10 Aristotle, Politiques, or Discourses of Government, translated from Greek to French

by Loys Le Roy; English translation anonymous (London: Adam Islip, 1598), 386.

11

John Hawkins, A General History of the Science and Practice of Music, vol. 1 (Reprint, London: Dover, 1963; first published 1853 by J. Alfred Novello [Lon-

274  Notes to Pages 11–14

don]), 466; and David C. Price, Patrons and Musicians of the English Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 41. 12 Don Harrán, “The Musical Encomium: Its Origins, Components, and Implica-

tions,” Revista de musicologia 16 (1993): 2188–90; and Thomas Palfreyman, ed., A Treatice of Morall Philosophy contaynynge the sayinges of the wyse [5th ed., rev. and enl.], (London: Richard Totyll, 1579), fol. 139v.

13 See Harrán, In Defense of Music: The Case for Music as Argued by a Singer and

Scholar of the Later Fifteenth Century (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 1989); “Musical Encomium,” 2187–97; and Butler, “In Praise of Music.”

14 Castiglione, Courtyer, sig. J2r–­v. 15 Aristotle, Rhetoric, trans. W. Rhys Roberts (New York: Modern Library, 1954),

bk.1, chap. 9, 61.

16 Aristotle, 60. 17 See Quintilian, Institutio oratoria, trans. H. E. Butler (London: William Heine-

mann; New York: G. P. Putnam’s Sons, 1921), 1.10.9–33; and M. L. West, Ancient Greek Music (Oxford: Clarendon, 1992), 246–48.

18 Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim, Of the Vanitie and Uncertaintie of Artes

and Sciences, trans. Ja[mes] San[ford] (London: Henry Wykes, 1569), fol. 27v. The work was first printed as Henrici Cornelii Agrippae ab Nettesheym, De incertitudine & vanitate scietiarum declamatio inuectiua (Cologne: Eucharius Cervicornus, 1537).

19 For succinct summaries of the querelle, see Amanda L. Capern, The Historical

Study of Women: England 1500–1700 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2008), 31–58; and Joan Kelly, “Early Feminist Theory and the Querelle des femmes, 1400– 1789,” in Women, History, and Theory: The Essays of Joan Kelly (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1984), 65–109. For parallels between the controversies concerning women and music, see Linda Phyllis Austern, “Music and the English Controversy over Women,” in Cecilia Reclaimed: Feminist Perspectives on Gender and Music, ed. Susan C. Cook and Judy S. Tsou (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1994), 52–69.

20 Rob C. Wegman, The Crisis of Music in Early Modern Europe 1470–1530 (London:

Routledge, 2005), 49–103.

21 See Barnett, “John Case,” 263–64; Elise Bickford Jorgens, “The Singer’s Voice in

Elizabethan Drama,” in Renaissance Rereadings: Intertext and Context, ed. Maryanne Cline Horowitz, Anne J. Cruz, and Wendy A. Furman, 33–34 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1988); Beth Quitslund, The Reformation in Rhyme (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 262–65; and Jonathan P. Willis, Church Music and Protestantism in Post-­Reformation England: Discourses, Sites and Identities (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010), 67–74.

22 See Harrán, “Musical Encomium”; Hutton, “Some English Poems in Praise of

Music,” in English Miscellany: A Symposium of History, Literature, and the Arts, vol. 2, ed. Mario Praz (Rome: Published for the British Council by Edizioni di storia e letteratura, 1951), 1–28; and Gioseffo Zarlino, Istitutioni harmoniche (1573) (Ridgewood, NJ: Gregg, 1966), 7–11.

23 Tobias Hume, The First Part of Ayres, French, Pollish, and Others (London: John

Windet, 1605), sig. B2v.

Notes to Pages 14–18  275 24 Thomas Ford, Musicke of Sundrie Kindes (London: John Windet, 1607), sig. A2. 25 Thomas Whythorne, Tenor, of songes, for fiue voyces (London: John Day, 1571), sig.

AAAiiiv; and Autobiography, ed. James M. Osborne (Oxford: Clarendon, 1961), 144–47 and 182–92. Haddon’s “De Musica” appeared in print five years later among his Poematum Gualteri Haddoni, Legum Doctoris, sparsim collectorum, libri duo (London: Gulielmum Seresium, 1576), sig. G4.

26 Ioan P. Couliano, Eros and Magic in the Renaissance, trans. Margaret Cook (Chi-

cago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 3.

27 Thomas Wright, The Passions of the Minde in Generall, rev. ed. (London: Valentine

Simmes for Walter Burre, 1604), 163.

28 Term from Jorgens, “Singer’s Voice,” 35. See also Boyd, Elizabethan Music and

Musical Criticism, 18–21; Charles Burney, A General History of Music (London: T. Becket, J. Robson, and G. Robinson, 17[76–­]89), 3:19; Patrick Collinson, The Birthpangs of Protestant England: Religious and Cultural Change in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988), 112; Hutton, “Poems in Praise of Music,” 29–30; and Le Huray, Music and the Reformation in England, 37.

29 See Castiglione, Il libro del cortegiano, fol. 47; and Courtyer, sig. Jii. 30 Praise of Musicke, sig. iiiv. 31 See Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 59–76. 32 See Christopher Marsh, Music and Society in Early Modern England (New York:

Cambridge University Press, 2010), 71–106.

33 Thomas Ravenscroft, A Briefe Discourse of the True (but neglected) Use of Charac-

t’ring the Degrees (London: Printed by Edw[ard] Allde for Tho[mas] Adams, 1614), sig. Av. See also Boyd, Elizabethan Music and Musical Criticism, 28.

34 Thomas Weelkes, Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voyces (London: Thomas Este for

William Barley, 1598), bassus partbook, sig. A2v.

35 Phillip Stubbes, The Anatomie of Abuses (London: Richard Jones, 1583), fol.

110r–­v.

36 William Prynne, Histrio-­Mastix: The Players Scourge, or Actors Tragedie (London:

Michael Sparke, 1633), 277.

37 Praise of Musicke, sig. iiiv and p. 30. 38 Stephen Gosson, The S[c]hoole of Abuse (London: Printed for Thomas Wood-

stocke, 1579), fol. 11. See also Plutarch, The Philosophie, commonlie called The Morals, trans. Philemon Holland (London: Arnold Hatfield, 1603), “Of Musicke. A Dialogue,” 1248–63.

39 Praise of Musicke, 36–53; and Lilio Gregorio Giraldi [L. Greg. Gyraldo], Historiae

poetarum tam Graecorum quam Latinorum (Basileae: [M. Isengrin], 1545), vol. 1, dialogue 1, pp. 49–61.

40 Thomas Tallis and William Byrd [Thoma Tallisio & Guilielmo Birdo Anglis],

Cantiones, quae ab argumento sacrae vocantur: quinque et sex partium (London: Thomas Vautrollerius, 1575), superius partbook, sig. Aii., English translation from John Milsom, ed., Thomas Tallis and William Byrd: Cantiones Sacrae (1575) (London: Stainer and Bell, 2014), xii, except that, in keeping with sixteenth-­century

276  Notes to Pages 19 –23

usage, I have substituted “physicians” for Milsom’s translation of “Physicos” as “physicists.” 41 Hume, First Part of Ayres, sig. B2v. 42 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, sig. B. 43 Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 23–65; and Smith, Acoustic World of

Early Modern England, 30–95.

44 Butler, “In Praise of Music,” 90–91. 45 British Library Add. MS 19758, Thomas Ravenscroft, A Treatise of Musick, fol. 2.

Morley, too, emphasizes that the practical beginner not be burdened by terms and concepts requiring what Ravenscroft perceives as understanding; see Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, sig. Br–­v.

46 Ravenscroft, Treatise of Musick, fol. 2. Morley also apologizes for using the ver-

nacular and similarly claims that it suits his pragmatic intent; Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, sig. B.

47 Praise of Musicke, 53. 48 See Jill Kraye, “Moral Philosophy,” in The Cambridge History of Renaissance Phi-

losophy, ed. Charles B. Schmitt, Quentin Skinner, and Eckhard Kessler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 311–12.

49 See Roger Bray, “Music and the Quadrivium in Early Tudor England,” Music and

Letters 76 (1995): 1–18; H. Floris Cohen, The Rise of Modern Science Explained (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 160–69; Hutton, “Poems in Praise of Music,” p. 15; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 72–90, 157–62, and 178–92; and “Performance Practice,” 259–60.

50 See Walter J. Ong, Ramus: Method and the Decay of Dialogue (Cambridge, MA:

Harvard University Press, 1958), 138–39.

51 Wright, Passions of the Minde, 165. 52 See Barnett, “John Case,” 262–3; Neal W. Gilbert, Renaissance Concepts of Method

(New York: Columbia University Press, 1960), 81; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 24–28 and 36–41.

53 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, sig. Br–­v. 54 Thomas Ravenscroft, Briefe Discourse, sigs. q4 and qq2. The quote with which the

Apologie begins is from [Pseudo-­]Plutarch, “Of Musicke. A Dialogue,” in Plutarch, The Philosophie, commonlie called The Morals, 1257–58.

55 Gosson, S[c]hoole of Abuse, fol. 8r. 56 Gosson, title page, and also fols. 7v–­8 and 8v–­9. On Gosson’s education, see Oxford

Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Gosson, Stephen (bap. 1554, d. 1625),” by Arthur F. Kinney, accessed January 16, 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​ /article​/11120.

57 Gosson, S[c]hoole of Abuse, title page. 58 See Boet[h]ius, [Anicius Manlius Torquantus Severinus]. De consolationae philoso-

phiae. The boke of Boecius, called the Comfort of Philosophy, trans. George Colville. (London: [ J. Cawoode], 1556), fol. O1r–­v.

Notes to Pages 23–24  277 59 See Barnett, “John Case,” 264; Binns, Intellectual Culture, 392–98; Mary Thomas

Crane, Framing Authority: Sayings, Self, and Society in Sixteenth-­Century England (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993), 14–15; Elizabeth L. Eisenstein, The Printing Revolution in Early Modern Europe (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1983), 90; Ann Moss, Printed Commonplace-­Books and the Structure of Renaissance Thought (Oxford: Clarendon, 1996), 207–10; Padley, Grammatical Theory, 6–7; and Wright, “Translations,” 314–21.

60 Binns, Intellectual Culture, 1–3. 61 Terence Cave, “The Mimesis of Reading in the Renaissance,” in Mimesis: From

Mirror to Method, Augustine to Descartes, edited by John D. Lyons and Stephen G. Nichols Jr. (Hanover: University Press of New England, 1982) 149 and 163; Roger Chartier, “Texts, Printing, Readings,” in The New Cultural History, ed. Lynn Hunt (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1989), 174–75; Darnton, “History of Reading,” 24; Eisenstein, Printing Revolution, 44 and 86–89; G. R. Evans, Problems of Authority in the Reformation Debates (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 1–69; Penelope Gouk, “Some English Theories of Hearing, in the Seventeenth Century: Before and after Descartes,” in The Second Sense, ed. Charles Burnett, Michael Fend, and Penelope Gouk (London: Warburg Institute, 1991), 96; and Richard J. Schoeck, “Renaissance Guides to Renaissance Learning,” in Acta conventus neo-­Latini Turonensis, ed. Jean-­Claude Margolin (Paris: J. Vrin, 1980), 241–47.

62 Nicholas Whight, A commendation of Musicke, And a confutation of them which dis-

prayse it (London: Alexander Lacy, [1563?]). On White, see Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “White, Sir Nicholas (c. 1532–1592),” by John G. Crawford, accessed 2 October 2016, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com.​/view​/article​/29263.

63 Aristotle, Politiques; [St. Augustine,] Confessions, translated by Sir Tobie Matthew

[St. Omer]: [English College Press], 1620; St. Augustine, Confessions, translated by William Watts (London: John Norton for John Partridge, 1631); Castiglione, Courtyer; [Pseudo-­]Plutarch, “Of Musicke. A Dialogue,” in The Philosophie, commonlie called The Morals, 1248–63.

64 Thomas Gain[e]sford, The Rich Cabinet (London: John Beale for Roger Jackson,

1616); Francis Meres, Palladis Tamia. Wits Treasury (London: P[eter] Short for Cuthbert Burbie, 1598); Wits Common Wealth, the second part (London: William Stansby for Richard Royston, 1634); and Witts Academy: A Treasurie of Goulden Sentences, Similes, and Examples (London: Printed for Richard Royston, 1635). See Binns, Intellectual Culture, 311; Crane, Framing Authority, 15–18; Robert Darnton, “First Steps Toward a History of Reading,” Australian Journal of French Studies 23 (1986): 6; Gerald D. Johnson, “Nicholas Ling,” 203–14; and Moss, Printed Commonplace-­Books, 1–50 and 192–204.

65 L[ing], Politeuphuia (1598), fols. 195v–­197; John Marbeck, A Booke of Notes and

Common Places (London: Thomas East, 1581), 754–56 and 1015–20; Ravenscroft, Briefe Discourse, sigs. A–­A4; and Thomas Robinson, The Schoole of Musicke (London: Thomas Este for Simon Waterson, 1603), sig. B.

66 Ravenscroft, Pammelia. Musicks Miscellanie (London: William Barley, 1609),

sig. A2.

67 W[illiam] B[asse] and E. P., A Helpe to Discourse (London: Printed by N. O. for

Leonard Beck, 1620), sig. F. See also Thomas Draxe, Bibliotheca scholastica instruc-

278  Notes to Pages 24–26

tissima. Or, A treasury of ancient adagies, and sententious proverbs (London: Apud Joannem Billium, 1616), 135–36. 68 As quoted in Hawkins, General History, 466. 69 [ John Bull], The Oration of Maister John Bull, Doctor of Musicke (London: Thomas

Este [1597]), title page. Only this page remains.

70 See Eisenstein, Printing Revolution, 48–50; Evelyn B. Tribble, Margins and Mar-

ginality: The Printed Page in Early Modern England (Charlottesville: University of Virginia Press, 1993), 160–61; and John N. Wall Jr., “The Reformation in England and the Typographical Revolution: ‘By This Printing . . . the Doctrine of the Gospel Soundeth to All Nations,’” In Print and Culture in the Renaissance, ed. Gerald P. Tyson and Sylvia Wagonheim (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 1986) 209–13.

71 See Roger Chartier, The Order of Books: Readers, Authors, and Libraries in Europe

between the Fourteenth and Eighteenth Centuries, trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 1994), 3–4; Darnton, “History of Reading,” 6 and 12–15; Arthur Ferguson, Clio Unbound: Perception of the Social and Cultural Past in Renaissance England (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1979), 61; Timothy Hampton, Writing from History: The Rhetoric of Exemplarity in Renaissance Literature (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1990), 4; Schoeck, “Renaissance Guides,” 241; and Tribble, Margins and Marginality, 160–61.

72 See Ann M. Blair, Too Much to Know: Managing Scholarly Information before the

Modern Age (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010), 94–101; Juliet Fleming, Graffiti and the Writing Arts of Early Modern England (London: Reaktion Books, 2001), 9–13 and 137–41; Jeffrey Todd Knight, “‘Furnished’ for Action: Renaissance Books as Furniture,” Book History 12 (2009): 48–54; Wendy Wall, “Household ‘Writing’ or, the Joys of Carving,” in Feminisms and Early Modern Texts: Essays for Phyllis Rackin, ed. Rebecca Bach and Gwynne Kennedy (Selingsgrove, PA: Susquehanna University Press, 2010), 35–36; and Wall, “Literacy and the Domestic Arts,” Huntington Library Quarterly 73 (2010): 409–11.

73 See Cave, “Mimesis of Reading,” 155–56; Michel de Certeau, The Practice of Every-

day Life, trans. Steven Rendall (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 163 and 165–76; Chartier, “Texts, Printing, Readings,” 154–56; Wolfgang Iser, “Interaction between Text and Reader,” in The Reader in the Text: Essays on Audience and Interpretation, ed. Susan R. Sulieman and Inge Crossman (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980), 106–7 and 111–12; The Act of Reading: A Theory of Aesthetic Response (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1978), 107–134; Ian Maclean, Interpretation and Meaning in the Renaissance: The Case of Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 67–68; and Tzvetan Todorov, “Reading as Construction,” in The Reader in the Text: Essays on Audience and Interpretation, ed. Susan R. Suleiman and Inge Crosman (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1980), 72–73.

74 Thomas Blundevill[e], The True Order and Methode of Wryting and Reading Hystor-

ies. London: Willyam Seres, [1574], sig. H2v.

75 Quintilian, Institutio oratoria, 1:155. 76 See Cave, “Mimesis of Reading,” 155–56; and Evans, Problems of Authority, 82–83. 77 Francis Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, Divine and

Humane (London: Thomas Purfoot and Thomas Creede for Henrie Tomes, 1605),

Notes to Pages 26 – 30  279

fol. 44v. See also Plato, The Symposium, trans. Walter Hamilton (London: Penguin Books, 1951), 90. 78 Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, fol. 44. 79 Robert Cawdray, A Treasurie or Store-­House of Similies (London: Tho[mas]

Creede, 1600), 455. See also Basse, Helpe to Discourse, sigs. A6–­A7v.

80 Cawdray, Treasurie (1600), 624. 81 Basse, Helpe to Discourse, sigs. A6v–­A7. 82 See Chartier, “Texts, Printing, Readings,” 169–71; Eugene R. Kintgen, “Recon-

structing Elizabethan Reading.” Studies in English Literature 30 (1990): 7; Harold Love, Scribal Publication in Seventeenth-­Century England (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993), 177–230; and Todorov, “Reading as Construction,” 80–81.

83 Michel de Montaigne, Essais de messire Michel, seigneur de Montaigne [. . .] edition

seconde, reveue et augmentée (Bordeaux: S. Millange, 1582), 118; and Essays, trans. John Florio (London: Melch. Bradwood for Edward Blount and William Barret, 1613), 71.

84 Cawdray, Treasurie (1600), 633. For additional analogies between reading and

physical comestibles, see “A Comparison of a Booke, with Cheese,” in Sir John Harington, Epigrams Both Pleasant and Serious (London: John Budge, 1615), sig. Er–­v; and Thomas Twyne, The Schoolemaster or Teacher of Table Phylosophie (London: Richard Johnes, 1576), sig. Av. See also Rebecca A. Bushnell, A Culture of Teaching: Early Modern Humanism in Theory and Practice (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996), 73–116; Chartier, “Texts, Printing, Readings,” 156–60; Darnton, “History of Reading,” 16–17; Hampton, Writing from History, 5; Kintgen, “Reconstructing Elizabethan Reading,” 7–13; and Tribble, Margins and Marginality, 2–3.

85 Zachary Coke, The Art of Logick (London: Robert White for George Calvert,

1654), 212.

86 See Peter Beal, “Notes in Garrison: The Seventeenth-­Century Commonplace

Book,” in New Ways of Looking at Old Texts: Papers of the Renaissance English Text Society, 1985–1991 (Binghamton, NY: Center for Medieval and Early Renaissance Studies, 1993): 134–35; and Blair, Too Much to Know, 20–21, 72, and 124–25.

87 Robert Cawdray, A Table Alphabeticall conteyning and teaching the true writing,

and understanding of hard usuall English words (London: J. Roberts for Edmund Weaver, 1604).

88 William Hornbye, Hornbyes Hornbook ([London]: Thomas Bayly, 1622), sig.

Br–­v.

89 Coke, Art of Logick, 212. 90 Blundeville, True Order and Methode, sigs. H2v–­H3v. 91 Beal, “Notions in Garrison,” 131–32; and Blair, Too Much to Know, 64–77. 92 Binns, Intellectual Culture, 310–16; Crane, Framing Authority, 3–4 and 15–18; Sister

Joan Marie Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces (New York: Pageant, 1962), 1–27 and 174–75; Moss, Printed Commonplace-­Books, 2–13, 22–23 and 207–20; Walter J. Ong, preface to Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of Commonplaces; and John G. Rechtien, “John Foxe’s Comprehensive Collection of Commonplaces:

280  Notes to Pages 30 – 33

A Renaissance Memory System for Students and Theologians.” Sixteenth-­Century Journal 9 (1978): 83–88. 93

Ellen Hooper-­Greenhill, Museums and the Shaping of Knowledge (London: Routledge, 1992), 91–97; Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces, 1–3, 136–37, 201–9; and 225; Moss, Printed Commonplace-­Books, 194–204.

94 Peter Beal, “Commonplace Book” in A Dictionary of English Manuscript Termi-

nology 1450–2000 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), 82–83; Beale “Notes in Garrison,” 134–37; Blair, Too Much to Know, 131–40; Victoria Burke, “Recent Studies in Commonplace Books,” English Literary Renaissance 43 (2013): 153; Crane, Framing Authority, 18; Anthony Grafton and Lisa Jardine, From Humanism to the Humanities: Education and the Liberal Arts in Fifteenth- and Sixteenth-­ Century Europe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1986), 136–37; Rebecca Herissone, Musical Creativity in Restoration England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 10–11 and 16–17; Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces, 192–224; Moss, Printed Commonplace-­Books, 208–11; Cristle Collins Judd, “Musical Commonplace Books, Writing Theory, and ‘Silent Listening’: The Polyphonic Examples of the Dodecachordon,” Musical Quarterly 82 (1998): 482–516; and Peter Schubert, “Musical Commonplaces in the Renaissance,” in Music Education in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance, ed. Russell E. Murray Jr., Susan Forscher Weiss, and Cynthia J. Cyrus (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2010), 161–92.

95 Gainesford, Rich Cabinet. 96 [Thomas] Blundeville, The Art of Logike (London: John Windet, 1599), 73. 97 Gainesford, Rich Cabinet, fols. 108, 112r–­v, and 117v. For information about the

trade in mass-­produced blank books useful for individual commonplacing, see Beal, “Commonplace Book.”

98 Coke, Art of Logick, 214. 99 John Brinsley, Ludus literarius: or The Grammar Schoole (London: Thomas Man,

1612), 187–88.

100 John Fox, Pandectae locorum communium (London: Johannes Dayus), esp. fols. 37,

99, 395, and 398.

101 Ling, Politeuphuia (1598), fols. 195v–­197. On the importance of beginning with a

definition, see Cicero, Three Bookes of Duties [De oficiis], trans. Nicholas Gilmald (London: Thomas Este, 1596), fol. 4.

102 [Robert Allott], Englands Parnassus (London: N. L. C. B. and T. H., 1600), 215; see

also 343.

103 Folger Shakespeare Library MS V.a.381, Commonplace Book, ca. 1600–1652, 111–13.

See also Wright, Passions of the Minde, 159–72.

104 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, sig. B2. 105 Scott Ashworth, “Traditional Logic,” in The Cambridge History of Renaissance

Philosophy, ed. Charles B. Schmitt, Quentin Skinner, and Eckhard Kessler (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1988), 143–72; Gilbert, Renaissance Concepts of Method, 119; Lisa Jardine, “Humanistic Logic,” in Schmitt, Skinner, and Kessler, Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy, 175–76; Kintgen, “Reconstructing Elizabethan Reading,” 5–6; Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces,

Notes to Pages 33– 35  281

5–7; Maclean, Interpretation and Meaning, 72–75; Ronald H. McKinney, “Origins of Modern Dialectics,” Journal of the History of Ideas 44 (1983): 179 and 187–89; and Erika Rummel, Humanist-­Scholastic Debate in the Renaissance and Reformation. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1995), 1–62 and 126–98. 106 Henoch Clapham, Doctor Andros His Prosopoeia Answered (Middelburg: Richard

Schilders, 1605), sig. A4.

107 Thomas Wilson explains that logic is “otherwise called Dialect (for thei are both

one)”; The Rule of Reason Conteining the Arte of Logique ([London]: [R. Grafton], [1552]), fol. 4v. See also J[ohn] B[ullokar], An English Expositor: Teaching the Interpretation of the Hardest Words used in our Language (London: John Leggatt, 1616), sig. F; and E[dward] P[hillips], The New World of English Words: or, A General Dictionary. London: E. Tyler for Nath. Brooke, 1658., sig. mv; Gilbert, Renaissance Concepts of Method, 119 and 197; Jardine, “Humanistic Logic,” 174–76 and 189–91; Maclean, Interpretation and Meaning, 72–75 and 104–10; McKinney, “Origins of Modern Dialectics,” 190; Walter J. Ong, Ramus, 225–23; and Rummel, Humanist-­ Scholastic Debate, 1–62 and 126–98.

108 See Coke, Art of Logick, sig. A8; Evans, Problems of Authority, 89; Jardine,

“Humanistic Logic,” 173; Maclean, Interpretation and Meaning, 72; and McKinney, “Origins of Modern Dialectics,” 189.

109 Wilson, Rule of Reason, fol. 45. See also Blundeville, Art of Logike, 162; Bullokar,

English Expositor, sigs. F and K2; Coke, Art of Logick, 3; Abraham Fraunce, The Lawiers Logike (London: William How, 1588), 3–4; Lever, Art of Reason, p. 100; Phillips, New World of English Words, sigs. mv and Z4v;and The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, or the Arts of Wooing and Complementing, 3rd ed. (London: James Rawlins for Obadiah Blagrave, 1685), 252.

110 See Brinsley, Ludus literarius, 182; Cave, “Mimesis of Reading,” 156; Crane, Fram-

ing Authority, 12–13 and 39; Kintgen, “Reconstructing Elizabethan Reading,” 5–6; Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces, 5–7; McKinney, “Origins of Modern Dialectics,” 189; and Rechtien, “Foxe’s Comprehensive Collection,” 88.

111 Brinsley, Ludus literarius, 182. 112 See Baldwin, Morall Phylosophye (1552), sig. A3r–­v; Bullokar, English Expositor,

sig. M2; Cave, “Mimesis of Reading,” p. 151; William Chappell, The Preacher (London: Edw[ard] Farnham, 1656), 131; Coke, Art of Logick, sig. A5r–­v; Folger MS V.a.381, 86–87; Hampton, Writing from History, 16–17; William J. Kennedy, Rhetorical Norms in Renaissance Literature (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 7–9; Lechner, Renaissance Concepts of the Commonplaces, 210–12; Maclean, Interpretation and Meaning, 76; and Padley, Grammatical Theory, 8–9.

113 Henry Peacham, The Garden of Eloquence, Conteyning the Figures of Grammar and

Rhetorick (London: H. Jackson, 1577), 155.

114 Peacham, 155. 115 Peacham, 78. 116 Brinsley, Ludus Literarius, 174–75. See also Baldwin, Morall Phylosophye (1552),

sig. A3r–­v; T[homas] B[lount], Glossographia: or a Dictionary (London: Tho[mas] Newcomb for Humphrey Moseley, 1656), sig. Gg5; Blundeville, True Order and Methode, sig. F3v; and Bullokar, English Expositor, sig. M2.

117 Basse, Helpe to Discourse, sig. B.

282  Notes to Pages 35–42 118 Pierre Charro[n], Of Wisedome, trans. Samson Lennard (London: Edward Blount

and Will. Aspley, [1608?]), 587.

119 See Blount, Glossographia, sig. Ii4v; Peacham, Garden of Eloquence, 77–78; and

Phillips, New World of English Words, sig. Ii3v.

120 The Art of English Poesie (London: Richard Field, 1589), 231. 121 See Padley, Grammatical Theory, 8; and Robert Wuthnow, Communities of Dis-

course: Ideology and Social Structure in the Reformation, the Enlightenment, and European Socialism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 130–31.

122 William Barley, The Pathway to Musicke (London: William Barley, 1596), sig. A2;

Andrew Boorde, The Breviarie of Health (London: Thomas East, 1587), p. 83; and Case, Apologia musices, 1 and 6. Wilson especially emphasizes the importance of beginning exercises in logic with a definition; Rule of Reason, fol. 27v; see also Cicero, Three Bookes of Duties, fol. 4.

123 Boorde, Breviarie of Health, 83. 124 Barley, Pathway to Musicke, sig. A2. 125 Case, Apologia musices, 6. 126 Richard Mulcaster, Positions Wherein Those Primitive Circumstances Be Examined,

Which are Necessarie for the Training Up of Children (London: Thomas Vautrollier for Thomas Chare, 1581), 36.

127 John Florio, Firste Fruits which yeelde familiar speech, merie Proverbes, wittie Sen-

tences, and golden sayings ([London]: Thomas Dawson for Thomas Woodcocke, 1578), fols. 70v–­71.

128 Oral knowledge and practical cultural activities also helped spread ideas about

music that could, in turn, infuse discourse; see Marsh, Music and Society, 33–34; and Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 36–37.

129 Humphrey Sydenham, “The Well-­Tuned Cymball,” in Sermons Upon Solemn Occa-

sions (London: John Beale for Humphrey Robinson, 1637), 5.

130 Gabriel Rollenhagen, Nucleus emblematum selectissimorum (Coloniae: Crispiani

Passaei, [1611]), fol. 53.

131 George Wither, A Collection of Emblemes, Ancient and Moderne (London: Printed

by A. M. for Henry Taunton, 1635), sig. L2.

Chapter Two 1

The Praise of Musicke (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1586), chap. 9–12, pp. 90–152. On the meaning of lawful as “Permissible; allowable, justifiable,” see the Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “lawful, adj.,” 1b, accessed April 19, 2017, http://​www​.oed​ .com.

2

Thomas Wilson, The Rule of Reason Conteining the Arte of Logique ([London]: [R. Grafton], [1552]), fol. 45.

3

Praise of Musicke, 139.

4

Praise of Musicke, 152.

Notes to Pages 43–48  283 5

See Théodore Gérold, Les pères de l’église et la musique (Paris: Librarie Félix Alcan, 1931).

6 Aristotle, Politiques, or Discourses of Government, translated from Greek to French

by Loys Le Roy; English translation anonymous (London: Adam Islip, 1598), 386; John Brinsley, Ludus Literarius: or The Grammar Schoole (London: Thomas Man, 1612), 174–75; Thomas Gain[e]sford, The Rich Cabinet (London: John Beale for Roger Jackson, 1616), title page; and Thomas Ravenscroft, A Briefe Discourse, of the True (but neglected) Use of Charact’ring the Degrees (London: Printed by Edw[ard] Allde for Tho[mas] Adams, 1614), sig. qq2

7

Robert Allott, Wits Theater of the Little World (London: J. R. for N. L., 1599), fols. 96v–­101v; and N[icholas] L[ing], Politeuphuia. Witts Common wealth, 2nd ed. (London: J. R[oberts] for Nicholas Ling, 1598), fols. 195v–­197.

8 Allott, Wits Theater, fol. 96v. 9

John Marbeck, A Booke of Notes and Common Places (London: Thomas East, 1581), title page and 754–56. See also Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim, Of the Vanitie and Uncertaintie of Artes and Sciences, trans. Ja[mes] San[ford] (London: Henry Wykes, 1569), fols. 27v–­30; Francis Meres, Wits Common Wealth, the second part (London: William Stansby for Richard Royston, 1634), 637–39; Richard Whitlock, Zootomia, or Observations on the Present Manners of the English (London: Printed by Tho[mas] Roycroft for Humphrey Moseley, 1654), 480–83; and L[eonard] Wright, A Display of Dutie: Dect With Sage Sayings, Pythie Sentences, and Proper Similies (London: John Wolfe, 1589), 32–35.

10 Thomas Trevelyon, Pictorial Commonplace Book, Folger Shakespeare Library, MS

V.b.232, fols. 158v and 189; Gillian Furlong, “A Rare and Unusual Late Elizabethan Commonplace Book,” in Treasures from UCL (London: UCL Press, 2015), 96; and Chloe Wheatley, “Trevelyon’s Pictorial Commonplace and the Patterns of a Protestant Past,” Word and Image 18 (2002): 173. The author thanks Nicholas Temperley for his efforts to identify the mystery piece, a typical “common” tune, not in any other surviving sources, and not close enough to any extant exemplars to be considered a variant. Its nearest relative is HTI 271a, “first printed by East in 1591, later named ‘Windsor’ by Ravenscroft, and still found in many hymnbooks”; email correspondence June 17–19, 2017. See The Hymn Tune Index, s.v. “Windsor,” http://​ hymntune​.library​.uiuc​.edu​/​/TuneName​.asp.

11

Charles Butler, The Principles of Musik, in Singing and Setting (London: Printed by John Haviland, 1636), 109–10; see also 98–115.

12 See, for example, Stephen Gosson, The S[c]hoole of Abuse (London: Printed for

Thomas Woodcocke, 1579), fols. 6v–­11v; Gosson, An Apologie of the Schoole of Abuse (London: Thomas Dawson, 1579), fols. 85v–­87v; Thomas Lodge, A Reply to Stephen Gosson’s Schoole of Abuse ([London]: n.p., [1579–80]), 24–33; John Northbrooke, Spiritus est vicarius Christi in terra (London: Thomas Dawson for George Bishoppe, 1579), 80–85; and Phillip Stubbes, The Anatomy of Abuses (London: Richard Jones, 1583), fols. 109–111.

13 “The Booke of Salomon” in The Bible in Englyshe (Rouen: Richard Carmarden,

1566), fol. 47. Representative collections of combined sacred and secular repertory include William Byrd, Songs of Sundrie Natures (London: Thomas East for William Byrd, 1589); Thomas Campion, Two Bookes of Ayres: The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs, The Second Light Conceits of Lovers (London: Thomas

284  Notes to Pages 48–51

Snodham, 1613); John Dowland, A Pilgrimes Solace (London: William Barley, 1612); John Mundy, Songs and Psalmes (London: Thomas E[a]st the assigne of William Byrd, 1594); Walter Porter, Madrigales and Ayres (London: William Stansby, 1632); Thomas Greaves, Songes of Sundrie Kindes (London: John Windet, 1604); Thomas Ravenscroft, Pammelia: Musicks Miscellanie (London: William Barley, 1609); and Thomas Whythorne, Songes, for three fower and five voyces (London: Printed by John Daye dwelling ouer Aldersgate, 1571). On the diversity of early modern English musical styles for sacred text, see Linda Phyllis Austern, “Music and Manly Wit in Seventeenth-­Century England: The Case of the Catch,” in Concepts of Creativity in Seventeenth-­Century England, ed. Rebecca Herissone and Alan Howard (Woodbridge, Suffolk: The Boydell Press, 2013), 292–93; Hannibal Hamlin, Psalm Culture and Early Modern Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004), 51–84; “Sobs for Sorrowful Souls: Versions of Penitential Psalms for Domestic Devotion,” in Private and Domestic Devotion in Early Modern Britain, ed. Jessica Martin and Alec Ryrie (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2012), 211–36; Robin Leaver, “Goostly Psalmes and Spirituall Songes”: English and Dutch Metrical Psalms from Coverdale to Utenhove, 1535–1566, Oxford Studies in British Church Music (Oxford: Clarendon, 1991), 83–85 and 118–19; Peter Le Huray, Music and the Reformation in England 1549–1660 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 370–402; Christopher W. Marsh, Music and Society in Early Modern England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 266–68 and 419–53; David C. Price, Patrons and Musicians of the English Renaissance (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 153–77; Beth Quitslund, “Singing the Psalms for Fun and Profit,” in Private and Domestic Devotion in Early Modern Britain, ed. Martin and Ryrie (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2012), 237–58; Nicholas Temperley, The Music of the English Parish Church (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 1:19–22 and 33–37; Tessa Watt, Cheap Print and Popular Piety 1550–1640 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 39–73 and 81–127; and Jonathan P. Willis, Church Music and Protestantism in Post-­Reformation England: Discourses, Sites and Identities (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010), 177–80. 14 Butler, Principles of Musik, 119; Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 225–30. 15 Edward Hake, “[U]pon the Edition of these Psalmes in Meter,” in William Daman

[Gulielmo Daman], The Psalmes of David in English Meter (London: John Day [1579]), treble partbook, sig. Aiii. Hake is accounted a “puritan” in Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Hake, Edward ( fl. 1564–1604),” by Louis A. Knafla, accessed May 17, 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​/11881.

16 Katherine Steele Brokaw, Staging Harmony: Music and Religious Change in Late

Medieval and Early Modern English Drama (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016); and Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 12 and 39–67.

17 Claude Desainliens [Claudius Hollybande], The French Schoolemaister (Lon-

don: William How[e] for Abraham Veale, 1573), sigs. A2–­A4 and pp. 68–78; and William Stepney, The Spanish Schoole-­master (London: R. Field for John Harison, 1591), “Epistle to the Reader” and 124–30.

18 Butler, Principles of Musik, 109. See also Praise of Musicke, 140. 19 [Thomas Coryate], Coryats Crudities (London: W[illiam] S[tansby], 1611), 249–53. 20 Jennifer Linhart Wood, Sounding Otherness in Early Modern Drama and Travel

(Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019), 213–20.

Notes to Pages 51–54  285 21 John Bossy, The English Catholic Community 1570–1850 (New York: Oxford Univer-

sity Press, 1976), 12–27, 31–32, and 47–54; A. G. Dickens, The English Reformation, 2nd ed. (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 1991), 355–57; and Price, Patrons and Musicians, 159–67.

22 Stephen Buick, “‘We are yet strangers in our own country’: Foreign and Mysteri-

ous Elements in the Elizabethan Settlement of Religion,” in The Mysterious and the Foreign in Early Modern England, ed. Helen Ostovich, Mary V. Silcox, and Graham Roebuck (Newark: University of Delaware Press, 2008), 234–38 and 242–23; Patrick Collinson, The Birthpangs of Protestant England: Religious and Cultural Change in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988), 98 and 106–12; Dickens, English Reformation, 367–68; Timothy Duguid, Metrical Psalmody in Print and Practice Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2014), 13–18 and 77–78; Edmund H[orace] Fellowes, English Cathedral Music. 5th ed., rev. J. A. Westrup (London: Methuen, 1969), 1–12; Ole Peter Grell, Calvinist Exiles in Tudor and Stuart England (Aldershot: Scolar Press, 1996), 98–113; “Merchants and Ministers: The Foundation of International Calvinism,” in Calvinism in Europe, 1540– 1620, ed. Andrew Pettegree, Alastair Duke, and Gillian Lewis (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 255–56; Peter Iver Kaufman, Prayer, Despair, and Drama: Elizabethan Introspection (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1996), 15; LeHuray, Music and the Reformation, 22–29 and 34–43; and Temperley, Music of the English Parish Church, 37–49.

23 Wood, Sounding Otherness, 243–58. 24 Kaufman, Prayer, Despair, and Drama, 17; Christopher W. Marsh, Popular Religion

in Sixteenth-­Century England: Holding Their Peace (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1998), 6–17 and 96–196; and Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century England (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1971), 172.

25 Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy, 4th ed., corr. and enl. (Oxford: Henry

Cripps, 1632), 139.

26 [ John Jewel], The Second Tome of Homilees (London: Richard Jugge, and John

Cawood, 1570), title page and 271–72.

27 Praise of Musicke, 139–40. 28 Butler, Principles of Musik, 1–92 and 93–135. 29 For example, [Matthew Parker and Thomas Tallis], The Whole Psalter Translated

into English Metre (London: John Daye, 1567), title page and sig. A2v; Thomas Ravenscroft, The Whole Booke of Psalmes, newly corrected and enlarged (London: Company of Stationers, 1621), title page and sig. Ar–­v; Thomas Sternhold [Starnhold], J[ohn] Hopkins, and others, The Whole Booke of Psalmes (London: John Day, 1562), title page; and Thomas Sternh[old], John Hopkins, and others, The Whole Booke of Psalmes (London: John Daye, 1572), title page.

30 See Peter Phillips, English Sacred Music 1549–1649 (Oxford: Gimell, 1991), 4; and

Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 208–16.

31 Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Daman [Damon], William (d. 1591),”

by David Mateer, accessed May 17, 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​ /7085, and “Hake, Edward (fl. 1564–1604),” by Louis A. Knafla, accessed May 17, 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​/11881.

286  Notes to Pages 54–56 32 Craig Monson, “Reading between the Lines: Catholic and Protestant Polemic in

Elizabethan and Jacobean Sacred Music,” in “Noyses, Sounds and Sweet Aires”: Music in Early Modern England, ed. Jessie Ann Owens (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006), 81–86; William Byrd, Psalmes, sonets, & songs of sadnes and pietie (London: Thomas Este for W[illiam] Byrd, 1588), n.p.

33 See Dickens, English Reformation, 214–15; C. A. Patrides, Figures in a Renaissance

Context, ed. Claude J. Summers and Ted-­Larry Pegworth (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1989), 313–24; Debora Kuller Shuger, Habits of Thought in the English Renaissance: Religion, Politics, and the Dominant Culture (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1990), 25; and Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 16–22 and 39–50.

34 Thomas Becon, The Relikes of Rome (London: John Day, 1563), title page and

fols. 116v–­132. Sources include the Bible and works by Saints Ambrose, Athanasius, Augustine, Chrysostome, Jerome, and Gregory; several medieval popes; and Agrippa von Nettesheim, Petrarch, Polydore Vergil, and William Dardanus.

35 Becon, fol. 120r–­v. 36 Becon, fol. 120r–­v. On inconsistent standards of musicianship and conduct among

church musicians from the mid-­sixteenth century to the end of the Elizabethan era, see Le Huray, Music and the Reformation, 40–44; and Marsh, Music and Society, 393–95.

37 Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim, Of the Vanitie and Uncertaintie of Artes

and Sciences, trans. Ja[mes] San[ford] (London: Henry Wykes, 1569), fols. 29v–­30.

38 Praise of Musicke, 90. 39 Praise of Musicke, 108–9. 40 Praise of Musicke, 112–19. See also Becon, Relikes of Rome, sig. E2r–­v; and Marbeck,

Booke of Notes and Commonplaces, 754–55.

41 George Wither, A Collection of Emblemes, Ancient and Moderne (London: Printed

by A. M. for Henry Taunton, 1635), sig. L2; Whythorne, Autobiography, ed. James M. Osborne (Oxford: Clarendon, 1961), 221–23 and 247–48; and Whythorne, Songes, for three, fower, and five voyces (London: Printed by John Daye dwelling ouer Aldersgate, 1571).

42 See Allott, Wits Theater, fol. 97v; Augustine, Confessions (1631), 324 and 673–74;

Becon, Reliques of Rome, sigs. E2–­E8v; The Bible and Holy Scriptures Conteyned in the Olde and Newe Testamant. Geneva: Rouland Hall, 1560, 1 Cor. 14:​14–15, pp. 85–86; The Booke of the Common Prayer and Administracion of the Sacramentes (London: Edouardi Whitechurche, 1549), “The Preface,” n.p.; The Forme of Prayers and Ministration of the Sacraments, &c. Used in the Englishe Congregation at Geneva (Geneva: John Crespin, 1556), 18–19; Ling, Politeuphuia (1597), fols. 195v–­196v; Marbeck, Booke of Notes and Commonplaces, 755–56 and 1015; John Marbeck [ John Merbecke],. The Book of Common Prayer Noted (London: Richard Grafton, 1550), sig. b3v; [Peter Martyr Vermigli], The Common Places, trans. Anthonie Marten (London: n.p., 1583), 313; Thomas Sternhold and J[ohn] Hopkins. The Whole Booke of Psalmes, Collected into Englishe Metre (Geneva: John Crespin, 1569), sig. YYY; and Wright, Display of dutie, 33–35.

43 Marbeck, Booke of Notes and Commonplaces, 1015.

Notes to Pages 56 – 60  287 44 Walter Frere, ed., Visitation Articles and Injunctions of the Period of the Reforma-

tion, vol. 3, 1559–1575 (London: Longmans, Green, 1910), 22–23.

45 James C. Spalding, ed., Reformation of the Ecclesiastical Laws (Kirksville, MO: Six-

teenth Century Journal Publishers, 1992), 121. See also An Admonition to the Parliament (London: n.p. [1572]), sigs. B2v, B4v–­B5.

46 See Becon, Relikes of Rome, sig. E8r–­v; Marbeck, Booke of Notes and Common-

places, 1019–20; and Vermigli, Common Places, 313–14.

47 Bible and Holy Scriptures, 1 Cor. 14:​14–15, pp. 85–86. See also Augustine, Confes-

sions (1631), 675–76; and Forme of Prayers, preface, n.p.

48 See Admonition to the Parliament, sigs. B4v–­B5; Agrippa, Vanitie and Uncertaintie,

fols. 29v–­30; Allott, Wits Theater, fol. 97v; Becon, Relikes of Rome, sigs E2r–­v and E7–­E8v; Robert Cawdray, A Treasurie or Store-­House of Similies (London: Tho[mas] Creede, 1600), 733; Forme of Prayers, preface, n.p.; Marbeck, Booke of Notes and Commonplaces, 209 and 754–55; and Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, fol. 109.

49 Marbeck, Booke of Commonplaces, 1015–16. See Becon, Relikes of Rome, sigs.

E3–­E8v; Cawdray, Treasurie (1600), 733; Certaine Articles Collected, sig. B2v; Gosson, S[c]hoole of Abuse, fols. 6v–­11v; Archbishop Matthew Parker, “Of the Vertue of Psalmes,” prefatory poem to Parker and Tallis, Whole Psalter Translated, sigs. Bv–­B2; Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, fols. 110–11; and Vermigli, Common Places, 312, which reinforce similar ideas. See also Duguid, Metrical Psalmody, 25–26; Marsh, Music and Society, 420–22; and Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 43–44.

50 Vermigli, Common Places, 312; and Certaine Articles Collected, sig. B2v. 51 See, for example, James Barish, The Antitheatrical Prejudice (Berkeley: Univer-

sity of California Press, 1981), 164–65; and Willis, Church Music and Protestantism, 57–74.

52 Thomas Wright, The Passions of the Minde in Generall, rev. ed. (London: Valentine

Simmes for Walter Burre, 1604), 165.

53 Bartholomeus Anglicus, Batman Upon Bartholome, His Book de Proprietatibus

Rerum, ed. and trans. Stephen Batman (London: Thomas East, 1582), epistle “To The Reader,” n.p.

54 Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Batman [Bateman, Stephan

[Stephen] (c.1542–1584),” by Rivkah Zim, accessed May 11, 2017, http://​www​ .oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​/1704.

55 Parker and Tallis, Whole Psalter Translated, fols. A3–­F3. 56 Byrd, Songs of Sundrie natures, dedication, n.p.; and Oxford Dictionary of National

Biography, s.v. “Carey, Henry, first Baron Hunsdon (1526–1596),” by Wallace T. MacCaffrey, accessed June 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/10​. 1093​/ref:​ odnb​/9780198614128​.001​.0001​/odnb​-­9780198614128​-­e​-­4649.

57 Bartholomeus, Batman Upon Bartholome, “De Musica,” fols. 421v–­424. 58 See, for instance, Becon, Reliques of Rome, fols. 117–22; T[homas] C[artwright],

A Replye to an Answere made of M. Doctor Whitgifte Against the Admonition to the Parliament [London]: [Hemel Hempstead or J. Stroud?], [1573], 203; [Henry Howard] A Defense of the Ecclesiasticall Regiment in England (London: Henry

288  Notes to Pages 60 – 64

Bynneman for Humfrey Toy, 1574), 177–78; and John Whitgift, An Answere to a certen Libel intituled, An Admonition to the Parliament (London: Henry Bynneman for Humphrey Toy, 1572), 203–6. 59 Gosson, The S[c]hoole of Abuse, fols. 6v–­11v; Lodge, Reply to Stephen Gosson, 24–33;

Gosson, Apologie of the Schoole of Abuse, fols. 85v–­87v; and Northbrooke, Spiritus est vicarius, title page, 80–85, and 113–24. For further information on the 1579 exchange of pamphlets, see William Ringler, Stephen Gosson (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1942), 37–38 and 144–45.

60 Bartholomeus, Batman Upon Bartholome, fol. 424v; see also fols. 424v–­426. 61 Praise of Musicke, title page. 62 Bartholomeus, Batman Upon Bartholome, fol. 425. 63 Bartholomeus, fol. 424v. 64 See E. D. Mackerness, “‘Christes Teares’ and the Literature of Warning,” English

Studies 33 (1952): 251–54; and Alexandra Walsham, “‘A Glose of Godlines’: Philip Stubbes, Elizabethan Grub Street and the Invention of Puritanism,” in Belief and Practice in Reformation England, ed. Susan Wabuda and Caroline Litzenberger (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), 187.

65 See Cuthbert Cunny-­catcher, The Defence of Conny-­Catching (London, 1592),

sig. C4v; Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Stubbes [Stubbs], Philip (b. c.1555, d. in or after 1610),” by Alexandra Walsham, accessed March 4, 2011, http://www.oxforddnb.comedu/view/article/26737; Walsham, “‘A Glose of Godlines,’” 179; and Anthony Wood, Athenae Oxonienses, ed. Philip Bliss (London, 1813), 1:645–47.

66 ODNB, “Stubbes, Philip”; Walsham, “‘A Glose of Godlines,’” 177–81 and 200–206;

and Wood, Athenae Oxonienses, 1:645–47.

67 See A Treatise Of Daunses, wher in it is shewed, that they are as it were accessories

and depe[n]dants (or things annexed) to whoredome ([London]: n.p., 1581); Gosson, S[c]hoole of Abuse, fols. 6v–­11v; Gosson, Apologie of the Schoole of Abuse; Peter Heylyn, A History of the Sabbath (London: Henry Seile, 1636), bk. 1, 106–7; bk. 2, 40, 84–88, 148–51, 156, and 187–89; John Norden, A Godlie Mans Guide to Happinesse (London: A. M. for John Marriott, 1624), 5–7; John Northbrooke, A Treatise wherein Dicing, Dauncing, Vaine playes or Enterluds with other idle pastimes commonly used on the Sabboth day, are reproved by the authoritie of the word of God and auntient writers (London: H. Bynneman for George Bishop, [1577?], 113–24; and William Prynne, Histrio-­Mastix: The Players Scourge, or Actors Tragedie (London: Michael Sparke, 1633), 220–90.

68 Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, title page. 69 Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, sig. q2. Philip Howard, thirteenth Earl of Arundel

(1557–1595), came from a family marked by shifting religious affiliation between the sixteenth and eighteenth centuries; see Bossy, English Catholic Community, 150–51; and Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Howard, Philip [St Philip Howard], thirteenth earl of Arundel (1557–1595),” by J. G. Elzinga, accessed March 4, 2011, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​/13929.

70 The Bible, That is The holy Scriptures conteined in the Olde and Newe Testament,

pt. 2, Ecclesiastes, or The Preacher, rev. ed. (London: Christopher Barker, 1599), “The Argument” and chap. 1, vv. 1–2. On the topos of vanity across geography and

Notes to Pages 64– 68  289

media, see Accademia Carrara, Bergamo, Evaristo Baschenis e la natura morta in Europa (Milano: Skira, 1996), 117–22; Linda Phyllis Austern, “‘All Things in This World is but the Musick of Inconstancie,’” in Art and Music in the Early Modern Period, ed. Katherine McIver, ed., (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2003), 294–98; and I. Bergstroem, “Notes on the Boundaries of Vanitas Significance,” in Ijdelheid der Ijdelheiden: Hollandse Vanitas-­Voorstellingen uit de Zeventiente Eeuw (Leiden: Stedelijk Museum, 1970), 6–7. 71 Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, fol. 109r–­v. 72 Stubbes, fol. 109r–­v. 73 Baldassarre Castiglione, conte, The Courtyer of Count Balthesar Castilio, trans.

Thomas Hoby (London: Wyllyam Seres, 1561), sigs. J2–­J3.

74 Stubbes, Anatomie of Abuses, fol. 110r–­v. On theories of fluidity between the sexes,

see Donald Beecher, “Concerning Sex Changes: The Cultural Significance of a Renaissance Medical Polemic,” Sixteenth-­Century Journal 36 (2005): 991–1016; Helen King, The One-­Sex Body on Trial: The Classical and Early Modern Evidence (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2013), 18–20, 49–70, and 111–25; Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 63–113; and Winfried Schleiner, “Early Modern Controversies about the One-­Sex Model,” Renaissance Quarterly 53 (2000): 183–85.

75 Anthony Fletcher, Gender, Sex, and Subordination in England, 1500–1800 (New

Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1995), 87 and 95–97; David Kuchta, “The Semiotics of Masculinity in Renaissance England,” in Sexuality of Gender in Early Modern Europe, ed. James Turner, 233–47 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 237–41; Laqueur, Making Sex, 124–27; Schiebinger, The Mind Has No Sex? Women in the Origins of Modern Science (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1989), 137–38; William Shakespeare, As You Like It, in Comedies, Histories and Tragedies (London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), act 3, scene 2, line 403; and Alexandra Shepard, Meanings of Manhood in Early Modern England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2003), 23 and 29–30.

76 Bartholomeus, Batman Upon Bartholome, fols. 424v–­426. 77 Helen Haste, The Sexual Metaphor (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press,

1994), 43–47; George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 3–4; Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 42–59; and M[aurice] Merleau-­Ponty, Phenomenology of Perception, trans. Colin Smith (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul; New York: Humanities Press, 1962), 160 and 184–86.

78 Abraham Fraunce, The Arcadian Rhetorike (London: Thomas Orwin, 1588), 15. See

also Thomas Wilson, The Arte of Rhetorique (N.P.: n.p., 1553), 91.

79 Henry Peacham, The Garden of Eloquence, Conteyning the Figures of Grammar and

Rhetorick (London: H. Jackson, 1577), fol. B2v.

80 Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 561–65. See also Haste, Sexual Meta-

phor, 51.

81 The New Testament of our Lord Jesus Christ, trans. L[aurence] Tomson (Lon-

don: Christopher Barker, 1599; first published 1576), The First Epistle of Paul to the Corinthians, chap. 2, v. 9, fol. 70v.

290  Notes to Pages 68– 6 9 82 Georges Bataille, Erotism: Death and Sensuality, trans. Mary Dalwood (San Fran-

cisco: City Lights Books, 1986), 19–20 and 35–36; Zoltán Kövecses, Metaphors of Anger, Pride, and Love: A Lexical Approach to the Structure of Concepts (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 1986), 72–73; and Denis de Rougement, Love in the Western World, trans. Montgomery Belgion, rev. and enl. ed. (New York: Random House, 1956), 153–66.

83 Kees Bolle, “Structures of Renaissance Mysticism,” in The Darker Vision of the

Renaissance: Beyond the Fields of Reason, ed. Robert S. Kinsman (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 130–31; Michel de Certeau, The Mystic Fable, vol. 1, The Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries, trans. Michael B. Smith (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1992), 4; The Writing of History (New York: Columbia University Press, 1988), 134–35; Jean During, Musique et extase (Paris: Albin Michel, 1988), 9; and Rougement, Love in the Western World, 164–65.

84 John Donne, A Sermon, Preached to the Kings Mtie at Whitehall, 24 February 1625

[1626] (London: Thomas Jones, 1626), 34.

85 Ioan P. Couliano, Eros and Magic in the Renaissance, trans. Margaret Cook (Chi-

cago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 4–5; David T. Evans, Sexual Citizenship: The Material Construction of Sexualities (London: Routledge, 1993), 12–13; L. J. Jordanova, Sexual Visions: Images of Gender in Science and Medicine between the Eighteenth and Twentieth Centuries (Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989), 42; Evelyn Fox Keller, Reflections on Gender and Science (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1985). 18 and 21–22; Kövecses, Metaphors of Anger, Pride, and Love, 70–71; Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 567; Susan Sontag, “The Pornographic Imagination,” in Styles of Radical Will (New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1969), 71; and Valerie Traub, Thinking Sex with the Early Moderns (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), 8–9.

86 Jordanova, Sexual Visions, 42. 87 Jordanova, 4–7. 88 Ro[bert] Wilkinson, A Jewell for the Eare (London: Thomas Pavyer, 1605), n.p. See

also Gina Bloom, Voice in Motion: Staging Gender, Shaping Sound in Early Modern England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007), 112–16.

89 Maurizio Bettini, Women and Weasels: Mythologies of Birth in Ancient Greece and

Rome, trans. Emlyn Eisenach (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013), 113–17; and Wes Folkerth, The Sound of Shakespeare (London: Routledge, 2002), 47.

90 Edward Topsell, The Historie of Foure-­Footed Beastes (London: William Jaggard,

1607), 728. See also Bettini, Women and Weasels, 103–113.

91 Richard Brathwait[e], Essays on the Five Senses (London: n.p., 1625), 6. 92 The Lamentable and Tragical History of Titus Andronicus (London: J. Clarke,

W. Thackeray, and T. Passinger, n.d.), Pepys Ballads 2.184–85, English Broadside Ballad Archive EBBA ID: 20800, http://​ebba​.english​.ucsb​.edu​/ballad​/20800​ /image, first stanza, line 3; The New Testament of our Lord Jesus Christ, Psalm 17, v. 6; Matthew Parker, Whole Psalter Translated, Psalm 5, v. 1, line 4, p. 8; and Shakespeare, Julius Caesar, in Comedies, Histories and Tragedies, act 3, scene, line 73.

93 The New Testament of our Lord Jesus Christ, Rom., chap. 10, v. 17, fol. 66v.

Notes to Pages 70 – 72  291 94 Shakespeare, Comedies, Histories and Tragedies: Cymbeline, act 2, scene 3, lines

11–17; Hamlet, act 3, scene 2, lines 136–39; Macbeth, act 1, scene 5, lines 15 and 24; and Othello, act 2, scene 3, line 339.

95 Linda Phyllis Austern, “‘Alluring the Auditorie to Effeminacie’: Music and the Idea

of the Feminine in Early Modern England,” Music and Letters 74 (1993): 343–54.

96 St. Augustine, Confessions (1631), 674–75. In reference to this passage, Watts

accuses the saint of “some Puritanicall thoughts now and then,” 675.

97 Batman’s “addition” to De musica in Bartholomeus, Batman Upon Bartholome, fol.

425v.

98 See Colleen McDannell, Material Christianity (New Haven, CT: Yale University

Press, 1995), 5.

99 J[ohn] B[ullokar], An English Expositor: Teaching the Interpretation of the Hard-

est Words used in our Language (London: John Leggatt, 1616), sig. M8; Henry Cockeram, The English Dictionarie (London: Edmund Weaver, 1623), sig. E5v; Phillips, New World of English Words, sig. Kkv; Vermigli, Common Places, 437 and 438–42; Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “rape, v.2,” “rapture, n.,” and “ravish, v.,” accessed June 17, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com; and Garthine Walker, “Rereading Rape and Sexual Violence in Early Modern England,” Gender and History 10 (1998): 1 and 5–8.

100 Roland Barthes, A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments, trans. Richard Howard (New

York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1978), 192; Cockeram, English Dictionarie (1623), sig. E5v; George Lakoff and Mark Johnson “The Metaphorical Logic of Rape,” Metaphor and Symbol 2, no. 1 (1987): 74–76; and Kövecses, Metaphors of Anger, Pride, and Love, 91–93.

101 T[homas] B[lount], Glossographia: or a Dictionary (London: Tho[mas] Newcomb

for Humphrey Moseley, 1656), sig. O3.

102 Ravenscroft, Briefe Discourse, sig. A3v; and Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melan-

choly, What It Is (Oxford: Printed by John Lichfield and James Short for Henry Cripps, 1621), 373.

103 Meric Casaubon, A Treatise Concerning Enthusiasme, rev. ed. (London: Roger

Daniel, 1656), 21 and 225–27.

104 Thomas Tomkins, Musica Deo Sacra (London: William Godbid for Timothy

Garthwait, 1668), medius partbook, 66. See also Anthony Boden, “The Lives and Times of Thomas Tomkins and His Family,” Bernard Rose, “Thomas Tomkins: An Appreciation,” and Denis Stevens, “The Music of Thomas Tomkins,” in Thomas Tomkins: The Last Elizabethan, ed. Anthony Boden (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 112, 282–83, and 207, respectively.

105 Gretchen L. Finney, “Ecstasy and Music in Seventeenth-­Century England,”

Journal of the History of Ideas 8 (1947): 153–54, 157–60, and 166–68; “‘Organical Musick’ and Ecstasy,” Journal of the History of Ideas 8 (1947): 273–92; I. M. Lewis, Ecstatic Religion: A Study of Shamanism and Spirit Possession, 3rd ed. (London: Routledge, 2003), 34; and Amanda Eubanks Winkler, “Enthusiasm and Its Discontents: Religion, Prophecy, and Madness in the Music for Sophonisba and The Island Princess,” Journal of Musicology 23 (2006): 308–11.

106 See Allott, Wits Theater, fols. 96v–­101v; Meres, Wits Common Wealth, 637–39; Ver-

migli, Common Places, 312; and Wright, Display of Dutie, sig. C4r–­v.

292  Notes to Pages 73– 79 107 William Barley, A New Booke of Tabliture (London: William Barley, 1596), sig.

A2v. See also Linda Phyllis Austern, “‘For, Love’s a Good Musician’: Performance, Audition and Erotic Disorders in Early Modern Europe,” Musical Quarterly 82 (1998): 614–15.

108 Richard Hooker, Of the Lawes of Ecclesiasticall Politie. The Fift Booke (London:

John Windet, 1597), 75; and Richard Mulcaster, Positions Wherein Those Primitive Circumstances Be Examined, Which are Necessarie for the Training Up of Children (London: Thomas Vautrollier for Thomas Chare, 1581), 38–39.

109 Folger Shakespeare Library, MS V.a.381, p. 111. 110 Josua Poole, The English Parnassus: or, A Helpe to English Poesie (London:

Tho[mas] Johnson, 1657), 139.

111 Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, trans.

J. F. (London: R. W. for Gregory Moule, 1651), 508.

112 The era’s dictionary definitions also reflect these linkages; see for instance Phillips,

New World of English Words, sigs. Kk7v, Kk2, and N3.

113 Richard Baxter, The Saints Everlasting Rest (London: Rob[ert] White for Thomas

Underhil and Francis Tyton, 1650), 761.

114 Lucas Trelcatius, A Briefe Institution of the Common Places of Sacred Divinity,

trans. John Gawen (London: T. P. for Francis Burton, 1610), 299.

115 Owen Feltham, Resolves, 5th ed. (London: Henry Seile, 1634), 275; see also 274. 116 Thomas Tomkins, Songs of 3. 4. 5. and 6. Parts (London: [Thomas Snodham] for

Matthew Lownes, and John Browne for Thomas Snodham, 1622), cantus partbook, title page and sig. A2.

117 Tomkins, Songs of 3. 4. 5. and 6. Parts, sig. D2v; Oxford Dictionary of National Biog-

raphy, s.v. “Heather, William (c.1563–1627),” by David Mateer, accessed June 12, 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​/12849; Denis Stevens, “The Music of Thomas Tomkins,” in Boden, Thomas Tomkins, 230;Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Heyther, William,” by Jack Westrup and Penelope Gouk, accessed June 12, 2017, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com.

118 Tomkins, Songs of 3. 4. 5. and 6. Parts, sig. A2. 119 Tomkins, sig. D2v. 120 William Baldwin [Baldewyn], ed., A Treatise of Morall Phylosophye (London:

Edwarde Whitchurche [1552?], fol. O2.

121 Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy (1632), 536–37; and Thomas Palfreyman, ed.,

A Treatise of Morall philosophy [. . .] first gathered and set forth by William Bauldwin (London: Richard Bishop. 1651), 256–58.

122 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 149–50. 123 Morley, 172. 124 Morley, 179 and 180. 125 Bonnie J. Blackburn, “The Lascivious Career of B-­Flat,” in Eroticism in Early Mod-

ern Music, ed. Bonnie Blackburn and Laurie Stras (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2015), 19–42.

Notes to Pages 79 – 91  293 126 Henry More, Cupids Conflict, in Democritus Platonissans (Cambridge: Roger

Daniel, 1646), 2.

127 Feltham, Resolves, 7. 128 Phillips, New World of English Words, sigs. N3 and KKv. 129 Butler, Principles of Musik, 1. 130 George Herbert, The Temple, 2nd ed. ([Cambridge]: T. Buck and R. Daniel, 1633),

57.

131 Beecher, “Concerning Sex Changes,” 1011–1016; Finney, “Ecstasy and Music,” 153;

‘Organical Musick’ and Ecstasy,” 290–92; John Hollander, The Untuning of the Sky: Ideas of Music in English Poetry, 1500–1700 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961), 348–58 and 389–90; King, One-­Sex Body on Trial, 223–25; Laqueur, Making Sex, 154–63; and Winkler, “Enthusiasm and its Discontents,” 311–29.

132 “By Heavens Decree the Sound of Musick by David’s Hand,” British Library Harl.

5936[385].

133 Thomas Mace, Musicks Monument (London: T. Ratcliffe and N. Thompson, 1676),

sig. bv.

Chapter Three 1

Joseph Quincy Adams Jr., “Hamlet’s ‘Brave O’Erhanging Firmament,’” Modern Language Notes 30 (1915): 70–72; Thornton Shirley Graves, “Notes on Elizabethan Theatres,” Studies in Philology 13 (1916): 13–14; Janet Hill, Stages and Playgoers: From Guild Plays to Shakespeare (Montreal: McGill-­Queens University Press, 2002), 136–37; Jerzy Limon, “From Liturgy to the Globe: The Changing Concept of Space,” Shakespeare Survey 52 (1999): 51–52; and Peter Thomson, Shakespeare’s Theatre, 2nd ed. (London: Routledge, 1992), 44.

2

William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, in Comedies, Histories and Tragedies (London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), act 5, scene 1, lines 54–65.

3

L[eonard] Wright, A Display of Dutie: Dect With Sage Sayings, Pythie Sentences, and Proper Similies (London: John Wolfe, 1589), 32.

4 Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, in Comedies, Histories and Tragedies, act 5,

scene 1, lines 66–68.

5

Stephen Gosson, The S[c]hoole of Abuse, fol. 8r–­v.

6 Shakespeare, Othello, in Comedies, Histories and Tragedies, act 3, scene 1, line 15. 7

Michel de Montaigne, Essayes, trans. John Florio (London: Melch. Bradwood for Edward Blount and William Barrret, 1613), bk. 2, “Apologie of Raymond Sebond,” 331 and 333.

8

John Case, Apologia musices (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1588), 9; translation from Dana F. Sutton, ed., John Case, Apologia Musices tam Vocalis Quam Instrumentalis et Mixtae (1588), A Hypertext Critical Edition, http://​www​.philological​.bham​.ac​ .uk​/music/.

294  Notes to Pages 92– 95 9

See, for example, J[ohn] B[ullokar], An English Expositor: Teaching the Interpretation of the Hardest Words used in our Language (London: John Legatt, 1616), sig. N5v; Robert Cawdray, A Table Alphabeticall conteyning and teaching the true writing, and understanding of hard usuall English words (J. Roberts for Edmund Weaver, 1604), sigs. B6 and O5; Thomas Elyot, The Dictionary (London: Thomae Bertheleti, [1538]), sigs. B2v and Y6v; and E[dward] P[hillips], The New World of English Words: or, A General Dictionary (London: E. Tyler for Nath. Brooke, 1658), sig. Mm2.

10 Penelope Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic in Seventeenth-­Century England

(New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 67–75.

11

Robert Recorde, The Grounde of Arts, teachyng the perfect worke and practice of arithmetike, rev. ed. (London: Reynold Wolff, 1552), preface, sigs. A5v–­A7.

12 Recorde, Grounde of Arts, sig. A5v. See also Gouk, Music, Science and Natural

Magic, 81–82

13 Bullokar, English Expositor, sig. E8v; Henry Cockeram, English Dictionary, 10th

ed. (London: A. M. for Andrew Crooke, 1655), sig. Dv; Elisha Coles, An English Dictionary (London: Peter Parker, 1685), sig. Z4v; Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “demonstration, n.,” accessed July 10, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com; and Phillips, New World of English Words, sig. Bb2v.

14 Bullokar, English Expositor, title page and sig. K5. 15 Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Crwth [chorus, crot, crowd],” by Bethan Miles and

Robert Evans, accessed July 10, 2017, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com.

16 Katherine Butler, “Myth, Science, and the Power of Music in the Early Decades

of the Royal Society,” Journal of the History of Ideas 76 (2015): 50–55; H. F[loris] Cohen, Quantifying Music: The Science of Music at the First Stage of the Scientific Revolution, 1580–1650 (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1984), 75–114; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 178–92; and Christopher W. Marsh, Music and Society in Early Modern England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 34–35.

17 Recorde, Grounde of Arts, sig. A6. Recorde was a committed Reformist and may

have received a doctor of divinity degree from Cambridge; Gordon Roberts, Robert Recorde: Tudor Scholar and Mathematician (Cardiff: University of Wales Press, 2016), 87–91.

18 Samuel Purchas, Purchas his Pilgrim (London: W. S. for Henry Fetherstone, 1619),

539–40.

19 Thomas Morley, A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (London:

Peter Short, 1597), 195–96.

20 Thomas Whythorne, Autobiography, ed. James M. Osborne (Oxford: Clarendon,

1961), 205.

21 Anicius Manlius [Torquantus] Severinus Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, trans.

Calvin Bower and ed. Claude Palisca (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), 50–51.

22 See Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 68 and 81–82; “Speculative and Prac-

tical Music in Seventeenth-­Century England: Oxford University as a Case Study,” in Atti del XIV congresso della societa internazionale di musicologia: transmissione e recezione delle forme di cultura musicale, vol. 3, Free Papers, ed. Angelo Pompilio,

Notes to Pages 95– 9 9  295

Lorenzo Bianconi, Donatella Restani, and F. Alberto Gallo (Torino: Edizioni di Torino, 1990), 199–200; Rebecca Herissone, Music Theory in Seventeenth-­Century England (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), 1–4; and Oxford English Dictionary, s. v. “speculate, v.,” accessed July 11, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com). 23 Roger Bray, “Editing and Performing Musica Speculativa,” in English Choral Prac-

tice, 1400–1650, ed. John Morehen (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 48–50; and “Music and the Quadrivium in Early Tudor England,” Music and Letters 76 (1995): 3, 5, and 9–14.

24 Gouk, “Speculative and Practical Music,” 200. See also S. K. Heninger, Touches of

Sweet Harmony: Pythagorean Cosmology and Renaissance Poetics (San Marino, CA: Huntington Library, 1974), 91; and Jamie Croy Kassler, “Music as a Model in Early Science,” History of Science 20 (1982): 110.

25 W[illiam] Vaughan, The Golden-­grove, mortalized in three books (London: Simon

Stafford, 1600). sig. Z8.

26 Annibale Romei, The Courtiers Academie, trans. J. K. (London: Valentine Sims,

[1598]), 268–69.

27 Case, Apologia musices, 31–32. 28 See Joscelyn Godwin, “The Revival of Speculative Music,” Musical Quarterly 68

(1982): 373; Gouk, “Speculative and Practical Music,” 199–200; Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony, 91; and Kassler, “Music as a Model in Early Science,” 104 and 126–27.

29 Allen G. Debus, “Mathematics and Nature in the Chemical Texts of the Renais-

sance,” in Chemistry, Alchemy and the New Philosophy, 1550–1700 (London: Variorum, 1987), 7–12; and Bruce Janacek, Alchemical Belief: Occultism in the Religious Culture of Early Modern England (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2011), 68.

30 Case, Apologia musices, 6–7; and Recorde, Grounde of Arts, sigs. A5v–­A6. 31 John Dee, preface to [Euclid,] The Elements of Geometrie, trans. H[enry] Billings-

ley (London: John Daye, 1570), sig. *1.

32 Nicholas H. Clulee, John Dee’s Natural Philosophy: Between Science and Religion

(London: Routledge, 1988), 151–53.

33 Dee, preface to [Euclid,] The Elements of Geometrie, sig. iiiv. See also [Robert

Recorde], The Whetstone of Witte ([London]: John Byngstone, 1557), sig. Br–­v; Clulee, John Dee’s Natural Philosophy, 146–54; Glyn Parry, The Arch-­Conjuror of England: John Dee (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2011), 20; Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “supernatural, adj. and n.,” A.adj.3 and B.n.1, accessed June 28, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com; and Benjamin Woolley, The Queen’s Conjuror: The Science and Magic of Dr Dee (London: HarperCollins, 2001), 12–13.

34 Romei, Courtiers Academy, 269. See also Sayaka Oki, “The Establishment of ‘Mixed

Mathematics’ and Its Decline 1600–1800,” Historia Scientiarum 23 (2013): 82.

35 Romei, 82–84. 36 Francis Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning (London: Henrie

Tomes, 1605), fol. 31r–­v.

37 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 195.

296  Notes to Pages 9 9 –101 38 Henry Peacham, The Garden of Eloquence, Conteyning the Figures of Grammar and

Rhetorick (London: H. Jackson, 1577), sig. B2.

39 Zoltán Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From: Reconsidering Context in Metaphor

(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 21–22 and 200.

40 Marion A. Guck, “Two Types of Metaphoric Transfer,” in Metaphor: A Musical

Dimension, ed. Jamie C[roy] Kassler (Sydney: Currency, 1994), 1–12; Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From, 22; Graham Pont, “Analogy in Music: Origins, Uses, Limitations,” in Kassler, Metaphor: A Musical Dimension, 193–203; and Michael Spitzer, Metaphor and Musical Thought (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 1–6.

41 Scott Atran, Cognitive Foundations of Natural History (Cambridge: Cambridge

University Press, 1990), 222; Harry Berger Jr., Second World and Green World (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1988), 9–11, 16, and 54–55; Christopher Butler, Number Symbolism (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1970), 47; Michel Foucault, The Order of Things: An Archaeology of the Human Sciences (New York: Random House, 1973), 17 and 33–38; Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony, 324–34; Hill, “Science and Magic,” in The Collected Essays of Christopher Hill, vol. 3, People and Ideas in Seventeenth-­Century England (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1986), 291–92; Keith Hutchinson, “What Happened to Occult Qualities in the Scientific Revolution?,” Isis 73 (1982): 245; Philip Kuberski, The Persistence of Memory: Organism, Myth, Text (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1992), 97–99; Ian Maclean, Interpretation and Meaning in the Renaissance: The Case of Law (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1992), 177; and D.P. Walker, “Esoteric Symbolism,” in Music, Spirit and Language in the Renaissance, ed. Penelope Gouk (London: Variorum Reprints, 1985), 221–23.

42 Foucault, Order of Things, 19–20. See also Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony,

329; and Hutchinson, “What Happened to Occult Qualities,” 239–42.

43 John Donne, Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, 2nd ed. (London: A. M. for

Thomas Jones, 1624), 453–54.

44 For more on this kind of process, see Kövecses, Where Metaphors Come From,

20–22.

45 François Du Jon [Franciscus Junius], The Painting of the Ancients ([London]:

Richard Hodgkinsonne for Daniel Frere, 1638), 257–58.

46 Bullokar, English Expositor, sigs. H4 and O6. See also Cockeram, English Dictio-

narie (1623), sigs. Lv and Q3.

47 Thomas Blundeville, The Theoretiques of the Seven Planets (London: Adam Islip,

1602), 112.

48 William Barley, The Pathway to Musicke (London: William Barley, 1596), sig. F. 49 Henry Smith, The Sermons (London: Richard Field for Thomas Man, 1593), 38. 50 Colin Murray Turbayne, The Myth of Metaphor, rev. ed. (Columbia, SC: University

of South Carolina Press, 1970), 22–27. See also Atran, Cognitive Foundations, 223; and Graham Pont, “Analogy in Music,” in Kassler, Metaphor: A Musical Dimension, 193–203.

51 Spitzer, Metaphor and Musical Thought, 142–44.

Notes to Pages 101–10 7  297 52 Stephen Batman, The Golden Booke of the Leaden Goddes (London: Thomas

Marshe, 1577), sigs. *2v and *4v.

53 Batman, The Golden Booke, fol. 17r–­v. 54 Henry Peacham [the Younger], Minerva Britanna, or A Garden of Heroical Devises

(London: Wa: Dight [1612]), 204.

55 John Hollander, The Untuning of the Sky: Ideas of Music in English Poetry, 1500–1700

(Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961), 44.

56 On the English use of “theorbo,” sometimes indicating the twelve-­course lute, see

Lynda Sayce, “Continuo Lutes in 17th and 18th-­Century England,” Early Music 23 (1995): 668–79.

57 For Salmon’s objections to standard notation and his proposal to replace it with

a system of his own devising, see Thomas Salmon, An Essay To the Advancement of Musick (London: J. Macock for John Car[r], 1672), 11–27. For a summary of the controversy caused by this attempt, see Benjamin Wardhaugh, ed., Thomas Salmon: Writings on Music, vol. 1, An Essay to the Advancement of Musick and the Ensuing Controversy (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2013), 10–31.

58 Peacham, Garden of Eloquence, sigs. B3–­C1. 59 Peacham, sig. Div. 60 Batman, Golden Booke, sig. *4v. 61 T[homas] B[lount], Glossographia: or a Dictionary (London: Tho[mas] Newcomb

for Humphrey Moseley, 1656), sig. DD2v. See also Cockeram, English Dictionarie (1623), sig. Hv; and Coles, English Dictionary, sig. Bb4.

62

Claude Levi-­Strauss, The Raw and the Cooked: Introduction to a Science of Mythology, trans. John and Doreen Weightman (New York: Harper and Row, 1969), 1:240.

63 Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 9–10. 64 Case, Apologia musices, 8. Translation modified from Sutton ed., John Case, Apolo-

gia Musices, http://​www​.philological​.bham​.ac​.uk​/music/.

65 Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Music of the Spheres,” by James Haar, accessed July 27,

2017, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com; Hollander, Untuning of the Sky, 23–26 and 379–83; and Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 218 and 251–57.

66 See Butler, Number Symbolism, 120; Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony, 329;

Russel A. Peck, “Number as Cosmic Language.” In Essays in the Numerical Criticism of Medieval Literature, ed. Caroline D. Eckhardt (Lewisburg, PA: Bucknell University Press, 1980, 17–18; and Leo Spitzer, Classical and Christian Ideas of World Harmony, ed. Anna Granville Hatcher (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1963), 8–9.

67 Andreas Ornithoparcus, Micrologus, or Introduction: Containing the Art of Singing,

trans. John Dowland (London: Thomas Adams, 1609), sigs. B2v–­C. Micrologus was first printed in Leipzig in 1517 and went through multiple international editions during the sixteenth and early seventeenth centuries of which Dowland’s was the last; see Oxford Music Online, s.v., “Ornithoparchus, Andreas,” by Klaus Wolfgang Niemöller, accessed July 29, 2017, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com.

298  Notes to Pages 108–112 68 The Praise of Musicke (Oxford, Joseph Barnes, 1586), 45–46. The author is probably

expanding on Boethius’s statement that nature enables music to form part of us; Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 1.

69 See Butler, Number Symbolism, 120–21; Imelda Caleon and Subramaniam Rama-

natha, “From Music to Physics: The Undervalued Legacy of Pythagoras,” Science and Education 17 (2008): 449–51; S. K. Heninger Jr., “Pythagorean Cosmology and the Triumph of Heliocentrism,” in Le soliel à la Renaissance: Sciences et mythes, ed. Jean-­Pierre Deschepper (Brussels: Presses universitaires de Bruxelles, 1965), 36–39; Touches of Sweet Harmony, 71; Joscelyn Godwin, introduction to Cosmic Music: Musical Keys to the Interpretation of Reality, edited by Joscelyn Godwin (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions, 1989), 7–8; Jamie James, The Music of the Spheres (New York: Grove, 1993), 20–27; Christoph Riedwig, Pythagoras: His Life, Teaching, and Influence, trans. Steven Rendall with Christoph Riedweg and Andreas Schatzmann (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2005), ix–­xi and 116–18; and Spitzer, Classical and Christian Ideas of World Harmony, 8–9.

70 Heninger, “Pythagorean Cosmology and the Triumph of Heliocentrism,” 36–39. 71 Henry Hawkins [H. A.], Parthenia sacra ([Rouen]: John Cousturier, 1633), 140–41. 72 Fra[ncis] Quarles, Emblemes (London: Printed by G. M. for John Marriot, 1635),

sig. A4v–­p. 2; and Virgil, The Eclogues (Harmondsworth, Middlesex: Penguin Books, 1984), 56.

73 See also Heninger, “Pythagorean Cosmology and the Triumph of Heliocentrism,”

35–36.

74 See Peter J. Ammann, “The Musical Theory and Philosophy of Robert Fludd,”

Journal of the Warburg and Cortauld Institutes 30 (1967): 201–2; John I. Beare, Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition (Oxford: Clarendon, 1906), 127; David Fideler, “The Monochord: The Mathematics of Harmonic Mediation,” in The Pythagorean Sourcebook, comp. and trans. Kenneth Sylvan Guthrie and ed. David R. Fideler (Grand Rapids, MI: Phanes, 1987), 24–25; Heninger, “Pythagorean Cosmology and the Triumph of Heliocentrism,” 38; and Kassler, “Music as a Model in Early Science,” 104–5.

75 Pliny [C. Plinius, Secundus], The Naturall Historie, trans. Philemon Holland (Lon-

don: Adam Islip, 1601), 14.

76 Plutarch The Philosophie, commonlie called The Morals, trans. Philemon Holland,

(London: Arnold Hatfield, 1603), 1045–47.

77 Christopher Simpson (Christophoro Simpson), Chelys . . . The division-­viol, or, The

art of playing ex tempore upon a ground, divided into three parts, 2nd ed. London: W[illiam] Godbid for Henry Brome, 1667), 1 and 23.

78 Pliny, Naturall Historie, 2. 79 See Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony, 74 and 103. 80 Henry Reynolds, Mythomystes (London: Henry Seyle, [1632]), 34–35. See also

Henry Peacham [the Younger], The Compleat Gentleman, 2nd ed. (London: Francis Constable, 1634), 72.

81 Reynolds, Mythomystes, 36–37. 82 Haase, “Harmonics and Sacred Tradition,” in Godwin, Cosmic Music, 92–93; and

Spitzer, Classical and Christian Ideas of World Harmony, 8–9.

Notes to Pages 112–114  299 83 Praise of Musicke, 2. 84 Wayne Shumaker, ed. and trans., John Dee on Astronomy: Propaedeumata Apho-

ristica (1558 and 1568), intro. by J. L. Heilbron (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1978), 188–89. See also Case, Apologia musices, 7.

85 Butler, Number Symbolism. See also Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony, 100–104

and 328.

86 William Ingpen, The Secrets of Numbers; According to Their Theologicall, Arithmeti-

call, Geometricall and Harmonicall Computation (London: Humfrey Lowns for John Parker, 1624), 94. See also Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, trans. J. F. (London: R. W. for Gregory Moule, 1651), 255; and Marsilio Ficino, Three Books on Life, ed., trans., and with introduction and notes by Carol V. Kaske and John R. Clark, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 57 (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1989), 331.

87 See Beare, Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition, 93–130; Butler, Number Sym-

bolism, 50–51 and 80; J. V. Field, Kepler’s Geometrical Cosmology (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1988), 112–26; Joscelyn Godwin, ed., The Harmony of the Spheres: A Sourcebook of the Pythagorean Tradition in Music (Rochester, VT: Inner Traditions International, 1993), 250; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 98, 147–48, 251–57, and 267; Heninger, “Pythagorean Cosmology and the Triumph of Heliocentrism,” 39–53; Touches of Sweet Harmony, 19–44; Hollander, Untuning of the Sky, 37–43; James, Music of the Spheres, 20–78; Kassler, “Music as a Model in Early Science,” 104–24; John MacQueen, Numerology: Theory and Outline History of a Literary Mode (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 1985), 24–113; Pont, “Analogy in Music,” in Kassler, Metaphor, 195; Benjamin Wardhaugh, Music, Experiment and Mathematics in England, 1653–1705 (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2008), 5–19; and Robin Waterfield, introduction to Chalcidensis Jamblichus, The Theology of Arithmetic: On the Mystical, Mathematical and Cosmological Symbolism of the First Ten Numbers (Grand Rapids, MI: Phanes, 1988), 25–31.

88 See Peter J. Ammann, “The Musical Theory and Philosophy of Robert Fludd,”

198–99 and 223; Butler, Number Symbolism, 94–104; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 145–50 and 251–54; Hollander, Untuning of the Sky, 37–43; Heninger, “Pythagorean Cosmology and the Triumph of Heliocentrism,” 37; Frederick Vinton Hunt, Origins in Acoustics: The Science of Sound from Antiquity to the Age of Newton (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 9–32; Wayne Shumaker, ed., Natural Magic and Modern Science: Four Treatises, 1590–1657 (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1989), 78; and Spitzer, Classical and Christian Ideas of World Harmony.

89 George Hakewill, An Apologie or Declaration of Power and Providence of God in the

Government of the World (London: Robert Allott, 1630), 90.

90 See Butler, Number Symbolism, 116; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic,

270–72; Hollander, Untuning of the Sky, 374–82; Claude V. Palisca, “Scientific Empiricism in Musical Thought,” in Seventeenth Century Science and the Arts, ed. Hedley Howell Rhys (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961), 93–94, and 136; and Pont, “Analogy in Music,” in Kassler, ed., Metaphor, 196.

91 Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 96; and Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “sone, n.,”

accessed August 03, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com.

300  Notes to Pages 115–121 92 Barley, Pathway to Musicke, sigs. A2v–­A4; and Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduc-

tion, 207.

93 Jan van der Noot [ John Van Der Noodt], A Theatre Wherein Be Represented as Wel

the Miseries & Calamities That Follow the Voluptuous Worldlings (London: Henry Bynneman, 1569), sig. A4r–­v.

94 John Birchensha, Writings on Music, ed. Christopher D. S. Field and Benjamin

Wardhaugh, Music Theory in Britain, 1500–1700: Critical Editions (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010), 94–96 and 116.

95 Charles Butler, The Principles of Musik, in Singing and Setting (London: Printed by

John Haviland, 1636), 12–13; Robert Fludd, Utriusque cosmi majoris scilicet minoris metaphysica, physica atque technica historia (Oppenhemii: Johan-­Theodori de Bry, 1617), 231–32; Peter Hauge, “The Temple of Music” by Robert Fludd, Music Theory in Britain, 1500–1700: Critical Editions (Farnham, Surrey: Ahsgate, 2011), 186–89; and Wardhaugh, Music, Experiment and Mathematics, 34.

96 Thomas Mace, Musicks Monument (London: T. Ratcliffe and N. Thompson, 1676),

269.

97 Peacham, Compleat Gentleman, 73. 98 Henry Wotton, The Elements of Architecture (London: John Bill, 1624), 53–54. See

also Pliny, Naturall Historie, 528; and Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Wotton, Sir Henry (1568–1639),” by A. J. Loomie, accessed August 1, 2017, http://​ www​.oxforddnb​.com​/view​/article​/30001.

99 Richard Brathwaite, Essaies Upon the Five Senses (London: Printed by E. G. for

Richard Whittaker, 1620), 4–5.

100 Dee, preface to [Euclid,] The Elements of Geometrie, sigs. D3v–­D4. 101 Barley, Pathway to Musicke, sig. A3; Brathwaite, Essaies Upon the Five Senses, 1–2;

Butler, Principles of Musik, 39; Mary Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 60–68; Fludd, Utriusque cosmi majoris, 160; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 125; Hauge, “The Temple of Music” by Robert Fludd, 5–6 and 32–37; and Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 2–4 and 11–12.

102 Peacham, Garden of Eloquence, sig. B2v. 103 See Shumaker, Dee on Astronomy, 126–29. 104 Shumaker, 162–63. 105 Robin Headlam Wells, “Number Symbolism in the Renaissance Lute Rose,” Early

Music 9 (1981): 32–42.

106 Simpson, Chelys, 24; and Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 152. 107 Mace, Musicks Monument, 267–68. 108 Shumaker, Dee on Astronomy, 126–27. See Clulee, John Dee’s Natural Philoso-

phy, 43–44; and [ John Dee], John Dee’s Library Catalogue, ed. Julian Roberts and Andrew G. Watson (London: Bibliographical Society, 1990), items 73, M74, and pp. 211 and 229.

Notes to Pages 122–127  301 109 James W. McKinnon, “Music” in The Early Christian World, ed. Philip F. Esler

(London and New York: Routledge, 2000), 2:777–79.

110 As quoted from Eusebius, in Psalmum 91:4, in Gustave Reese, Music in the Middle

Ages (New York: Norton, 1940), 62.

111 As quoted from Pseudo-­Origen, Selecta in psalmos, 90:5, in James McKinnon,

ed., Music in Early Christian Literature (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 39.

112 Wright, Display of Dutie, 35. 113 Peacham, Minerva Britanna, 45; and Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 63. 114 See Daniel T. Fischlin, “‘And Tuned by Thee’: Music and Divinity in George

Herbert’s Poetry,” Explorations in Renaissance Culture 16 (1990): 87–99; and Hollander, Untuning of the Sky, 291–94.

115 W[illiam] D[rummond], “On the Booke,” in Archibald Simson [M. A. Symson],

Heptameron, The Seven Dayes (St. Andrews: Edward Raban, 1621), sig. A7.

116 Fludd, Utriusque cosmi majoris, 90. Liber Tertius, De Musica Mundana is 78–106;

Caput III, “De monocordo mundana,” is 85–94.

117 See Ammann, “The Musical Theory and Philosophy of Robert Fludd,” 198–227;

Pierre Béhar, Les langues occultes de la Renaissance (Paris: Éditions Desjonquères, 1996), 233–39; Godwin, ed., The Harmony of the Spheres, 236–37; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 98–99; Hauge, “The Temple of Music” by Robert Fludd, 1–2; and Bruce Janacek, Alchemical Belief (University Park, PA: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 2011), 68

118 See Ammann, “Musical Theory and Philosophy of Robert Fludd,” 202–3 and

201–18; and Godwin, Harmony of the Spheres, 237–47.

119 See Ammann, “Musical Theory and Philosophy of Robert Fludd,” 210–18; Gouk,

Music, Science and Natural Magic, 98; and Hauge, “The Temple of Music” by Robert Fludd, 1–2.

120 Ben Jonson, The Workes of Benjamin Jonson (London: Richard Meighen, 1640),

2:42–43.

121 Roger Ascham, The Scholemaster (London: John Day, 1570), fol. 5v. 122 Alec Ryrie, The Sorcerer’s Tale: Faith and Fraud in Tudor England (Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 2008), 122–23.

123 Richard Brathwaite, The English Gentleman (London: John Haviland, 1630),

130–31.

124 Timothy McCall and Sean Roberts, “Revealing Early Modern Secrecy,” in Visual

Cultures of Secrecy in Early Modern Europe, ed. Timothy McCall, Sean Roberts, and Giancarlo Fiorenza, Early Modern Studies 11 (Kirksville, MO: Truman State University, 2013), 19–20.

125 Blount, Glossographia, sig. Ee3; Coles, English Dictionary, sig. Cc4; Cockeram, The

English Dictionarie (London: Edmund Weaver, 1623), sig. H4; Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “occult, adj. and n.,” accessed August 11, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com; Phillips, New World of English Words, sig. Ee2; and A Physical Dictionary (London: G. D. for John Garfield, 1657), sig. K3v.

302  Notes to Pages 128–130 126 Joseph Moxon, Mathematicks made Easie: or, A Mathematical Dictionary (London:

Joseph Moxon, 1679), 81–82. Francis Bacon defined magic similarly earlier in the same century; De augmentis scientarum, in Works, ed. Robert Leslie Ellis, Douglas Denton Heath, and James Spedding, vol. 4, Translations of the Philosophical Works, Volume I (1875), 366–67; and Of the Advancement and Proficience of Learning, trans. Gilbert Watts (Oxford: Leon Lichfield for Robert Young and Edward Forest, 1640), 168–69.

127 Moxon, Mathematicks made Easie, 93. 128 See Stuart Clark, Thinking with Demons: The Idea of Witchcraft in Early Modern

Europe (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 215–20; Brian Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture from Antiquity to the Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 25–51; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 10–14; John Henry, “Magic and Science in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” in Companion to the History of Modern Science, ed. R. C. Olby, G. N. Cantor, J. R. R. Christie, and M. J. S. Hodge (London: Routledge, 1990), 585; Richard Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2014), 8–17; and Georg Luck, Arcana Mundi: Magic and the Occult in the Greek and Roman Worlds (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 1985), 4–9.

129 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 416–27; and Brian Vickers, “On the Func-

tion of Analogy in the Occult,” in Hermeticism and the Renaissance, ed. Ingrid Merkel and Allen G. Debus (Washington, DC: Folger Shakespeare Library; London: Associated University Presses, 1988), 274–77.

130 Stuart Clark, “Witchcraft and Magic in Early Modern Culture,” in Witchcraft and

Magic in Europe: The Period of the Witch Trials, ed. Bengt Ankarloo, Stuart Clark, and William Monter (London: Athlonoe, 2002), 150–53; Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 22–24; Geertz, “An Anthropology of Religion and Magic, I,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 6 (1975): 85; John Henry, “The Fragmentation of Renaissance Occultism and the Decline of Magic,” History of Science 46 (2008): 5–8; “Magic and Science in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” 584–85; Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, 10–16; Wayne Shumaker, The Occult Sciences in the Renaissance: A Study in Intellectual Patterns (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1972), 3; Stanley Jeyaraja Tambiah, Magic, Science, Religion and the Scope of Rationality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), 30; Keith Thomas, “An Anthropology of Religion and Magic, II,” Journal of Interdisciplinary History 6 (1975): 94–95; Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century England (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1971), 643–44; Vickers, “Of the Function of Analogy in the Occult,” 266 and 277–88; and D. P. Walker, Spiritual and Demonic Magic from Ficino to Campanella (London: Warburg Institute, 1958), 76.

131 Clark, Thinking with Demons, 233–36; “Witchcraft and Magic in Early Modern

Culture,” 160–66; Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 24 and 446–48; Ioan P. Couliano, Eros and Magic in the Renaissance, trans. Margaret Cook (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987), 156–62; Kieckhefer, Magic in the Middle Ages, 8–17; William R. Newman and Anthony Grafton, “Introduction: The Problematic Status of Astrology and Alchemy in Premodern Europe,” in Secrets of Nature, ed. William R. Newman and Anthony Grafton (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 2001), 18–27; Shumaker, Occult Sciences in the Renaissance, 108–9; Walker, Spiritual and Demonic Magic, 36, 47, and 75–84; and Frances A. Yates, The Occult Philosophy in the Elizabethan Age (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1979), 1.

Notes to Pages 130 –132  303 132 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 24; Walter Ralegh, The History of the World

(London: Walter Burre, 1614), 208; Robert Turner, “Preface to the Unprejudiced Reader,” in Henry Cornelius Agrippa von Nettesheim [pseud.], Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy, trans. Robert Turner (London: J. C. for the Rooks, 1665), sigs. A2v–­A3; and Walker, “Esoteric Symbolism,” 229. Even though Agrippa’s name appears on the title page, his authorship of this posthumous treatise is dubious.

133 Bullokar, English Expositor, sig. K3. 134 James I of England and Scotland, Daemonologie (Edinburgh, 1597; reprint, Lon-

don: William Cotton and Will[iam] Aspley, 1603), 40.

135 Giambattista della Porta [ John Baptista Porta], Natural Magick: In XX Books,

(London: Thomas Young and Samuel Speed, 1658), 2; Agrippa von Nettesheim, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 2–3; Paracelsus [Theophrastus von Hohenheim], Of the Supreme Mysteries of Nature, trans. Robert Turner (London: [Robert Turner,] 1655), pp. 31–32; and Ralegh, History of the World, 202.

136 See Brian P. Copenhaver, “Hermes Trismagistus, Proclus and the Question of a

Philosophy of Magic in the Renaissance,” in Hermeticism and the Renaissance, ed. Ingrid Merkel and Allen G. Debus (Washington, DC: Folger Shakespeare Library; London: Associated University Presses, 1988), 80; Brian P. Copenhaver and Charles B. Schmitt, Renaissance Philosophy, A History of Western Philosophy 3 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), 320–22 and 347; Henry, “Magic and Science in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” 586; Hill, “Science and Magic,” 283, 285–87, and 291–92; Hutchinson, “What Happened to Occult Qualities,” 233; Shumaker, Occult Sciences in the Renaissance, 108–9; Tambiah, Magic, Science, Religion and the Scope of Rationality, 31; Thomas, “An Anthropology of Religion and Magic, II,” 96–98; Religion and the Decline of Magic, 51–77, 159–66, 254–55, and 644; and Walker, Spiritual and Demonic Magic, 36 and 83–84.

137 Nicholas H. Clulee, “John Dee at 400: Still an Enigma,” in Bridging Traditions:

Alchemy, Chemistry, and Parcelsian Practices in the Early Modern Era, ed. Karen Hunger Parshall, Michael T. Walton, and Brude T. Moran, Early Modern Studies 15 (Kirskville, MO: Truman State University Press, 2015), 243–44; Clulee, John Dee’s Natural Philosophy, 168–70 and 222–29; Eamon Duffy, The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England c. 1400–­c. 1580 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1992), 266–98, 434–35,and 450–53; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 224–57; Glyn Parry, Arch-­Conjuror of England, 1–15 and 205–16; Ryrie, Sorcerer’s Tale, 157–59; William H. Sherman, John Dee: The Politics of Reading and Writing in the English Renaissance (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1995), 17–19; and Woolley, Queen’s Conjuror, 308–10.

138 Copenhaver, “Hermes Trismegistus,” 79–110; Magic in Western Culture, 55–56,

84–91, and 157–230; Henry, “Magic and Science in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” 585–86; Hill, “Science and Magic,” 278–79; Tambiah, Magic, Science, Religion and the Scope of Rationality, 25 and 29; Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, 224–25; and Frances A. Yates, Giordano Bruno and the Hermetic Tradition (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1964), 1–16 and 44–83.

139 See Case, Apologia musices, 3, 10, and 21; Thomas, Religion and the Decline of

Magic, 225; and Vickers, “Of the Function of Analogy in the Occult,” 266.

140 Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, 169; Kieckhefer, Magic in

the Middle Ages, 1; and Luck, Arcana Mundi, 9–11.

304  Notes to Pages 132–135 141 See Linda Phyllis Austern, “‘Art to Enchant’: Musical Magic and Its Practitioners

in English Renaissance Drama,” Journal of the Royal Musical Association 115 (1990): 191–206; Katherine Steele Brokaw, Staging Harmony: Music and Religious Change in Late Medieval and Early Modern English Drama (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2016), 155–76 and 193–209; Allison Kavey, Books of Secrets: Natural Philosophy in England, 1550–1600 (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 2007), 33–34 and 39–43; Marsh, Music and Society, 251–70; Diane Purkiss, “The All-­Singing, All-­ Dancing Plays of the Jacobean Witch-­Vogue: The Masque of Queens, Macbeth, The Witch,” in The Witch in History: Early Modern Through Twentieth-­Century Representations, ed. Diane Purkiss (London: Routledge, 1996), 200–222; Sarah F. Williams, Damnable Practises: Witches, Dangerous Women, and Music in Seventeenth-­Century English Broadside Ballads (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2015), 13–19 and 65–78; and Amanda Eubanks Winkler, O Let Us Howle Some Heavy Note: Music for Witches, the Melancholic, and the Mad on the Seventeenth-­Century English Stage (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2006), 18–61.

142 Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, 168–69. 143 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 167–68. See also Clulee, John Dee’s

Natural Philosophy, 149; and Henry, “Magic and Science in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” 584–85 and 592. See also Peacham, Compleat Gentleman, 73–74, in which geometry related to engineering is treated in terms similar to natural magic; and John Wilkins, Mathematicall Magick, or the Wonders that May Be Performed by Mechanicall Geometry (London: M. F. for Sa. Gellibrand, 1648), sigs. A4v–­A5, in which the author explains what he considers an inappropriate title to be part of the “vulgar opinion” linking mathematical mechanical inventions to magic.

144 See Gary Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic: Toward a Historiography of

Others (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 61–66.

145 Lodowick Lloyd, The Pilgrimage of Princes (London: William Jones, [1573?]),

fol. 201.

146 Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 157–84 and 207–15. 147 Katherine Butler, Music in Elizabethan Court Politics, Studies in Medieval and

Renaissance Music 14 (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell and Brewer, 2015), 32–33 and 82–85; and Marsh, Music and Society, 57.

148 Case, Apologia musices, 73–74. 149 Duffy, Stripping of the Altars, 452; and Marsh, Music and Society, 465. 150 Agrippa von Nettesheim [pseud.], Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy, 65–66; and

Ludwig Lavater [Lewes Lavaterus], Of Ghostes and Spirities Walking by Night, trans. R. H. (London: Henry Benneyman for Richard Watkyyns, 1572), 93.

151 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 256–57; and Ryrie, Sorcerer’s Tale, 114–15. 152 Thomas Campion [Campian], The Third and Fourth Booke of Ayres (London:

Thomas Snodham, 1617), no. 18, sig. D2.

153 See, for instance, John Cotta, The Triall of Witch-­Craft (London: George Purslowe

for Samuel Rand, 1616); Sébastien Michaelis, The Admirable History of the Posession and Conversion of a Penitent woman: Seduced by a Magician that made her to become a witch, trans. W. B. (London: F. Kingston for William Aspley, [1613]);

Notes to Pages 136 –138  305

Thomas Potts, The Wonderful Discoverie of Witches in the Countie of Lancaster (London: W. Stansby for John Borwne, 1613); and The Wonderful Discouerie of the Witchcrafts of Margaret and Phillip Flower (London: G. Eld for J. Barnes, 1619). Shakespeare’s Tempest premiered in 1613, and Middleton’s The Witch most likely between 1613 and 1616. 154 See, for instance, Thomas Ravenscroft, Melismata: Musicall Phansies (London:

William Stansby for Thomas Adama, 1611), sig. A4 and E3–­F3v; Pammelia. Musicks Miscellanie (London: William Barley, 1609), sigs. Fv–­F2; and also Bruce R. Smith, The Acoustic World of Early Modern England: Attending to the O-­Factor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press), 81–82.

155 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 97–99; Couliano, Eros and Magic, 107–8;

Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 20–38; Austern, “Music Treatments for Lovesickness: The Early Modern Heritage,” in Music as Medicine: The History of Music Therapy since Antiquity, ed. Peregrine Horden (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 217–25; and Winkler, O Let Us Howle, 65–68.

156 Katherine Butler, “Changing Attitudes Towards Classical Mythology and Their

Impact on Notions of the Powers of Music in Early Modern England,” Music and Letters 97 (2016): 54–59; Hollander, Untuning of the Sky, 162–74; Winkler, O Let Us Howle, 166.

157 Agrippa [pseud.], Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy, 187. 158 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 223; Bruce Janacek, Alchemical Belief, 8–10;

Stanton J. Linden, “Frances Bacon and Alchemy: The Reform of Vulcan,” Journal of the History of Ideas 35 (1974): 548–50; and Parry, Arch-­Conjuror of England, xi.

159 Blount, Glossographia, sig. B10v; Bullokar, English Expositor, sig. B4v; Cockeram,

English Dictionarie (1623), sig. A2v; and John Reidy, ed., Thomas Norton’s Ordinal of Alchemy (London: Oxford University Press, 1975), introduction, lv–­lxvii.

160 Thomas Norton, The Ordinall of Alchimy, Theatrum chemicum Britannicum, ed.

Elias Ashmole (London: J. Grismond for Nath: Brooke, 1652), 61; The Ordinall of Alchymy, written, in verse, British Library, Add. MS 10302, http://​www​.bl​.uk​ /collection​-­items​/the​-­ordinal​-­of​-­alchemy​-­1477; Thomas Norton, The Ordinal of Alchemy in English Verse (ca. 1610), Yale University Beinecke Library, Mellon MS 46, http://​brbl​-­dl​.library​.yale​.edu​/vufind​/Record​/3441268; and Reidy, Thomas Norton’s Ordinal of Alchemy, introduction, ix–­xxi.

161 Joscelyn Godwin, “A Context for Michael Maier’s Atalanta fugiens (1617),” Her-

metic Journal 29 (1985): 4–10; Tim Carter, “Resemblance and Representation: Towards a New Aesthetic in the Music of Monteverdi,” in “Con che soavità”: Studies in Italian Opera, Song, and Dance, 1580–1740, ed. Iain Fenlon and Tim Carter (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995): 118–21; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 150–51; Jamie Croy Kassler, “Thomas Britton: Musician and Magician?,” Musicology 7 (1982): 67–72; Manfred Kelkel, “À la recherche d’un art total: Musique et alchimie chez Michael Maier—Maniérismes et discours hermétique dans Atalanta fugiens (1617),” Analyse musicale 8 (1987): 49–55; Franz Liessem, Music und Alchemie (Tutzing: Hans Schneider, 1969), 47–166; Albert Pomme de Mirimonde, Astologie et musique (Geneva: Éditions Minkoff, 1977), 89 and 92–103; Lorenz Welker, “Claudio Monteverdi und die Alchemie,” Basler Jahrbuch für historische Musikpraxis 13 (1989): 11–29; and Laurence Wuidar, “Trasmutazioni alchemiche e trasformazioni musicali nel Cinque e Seicento,” in Elisir mercuriale e

306  Notes to Pages 138–142

immortalità: Capitoli per una storia dell’alchimia nell’antica Eurasia, ed. Giacomella Orofino, Amneris Roselli, and Antonella Sannino (Pisa: Fabrizio Serra, 2016), 111–43. 162 Norton, The Ordinall of Alchimy, Theatrum chemicum Britannicum, ed. Elias Ash-

mole (London: J. Grismond for Nath: Brooke, 1652), 61.

163 Robert Turner, preface to Agrippa von Nettesheim [pseud.], Fourth Book of Occult

Philosophy, sig. A3.

164 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 81–82, 113–14, and 236; Hill, “Science and

Magic,” 277; Lauren Kassell, “Stars, Spirits, Signs: Towards a History of Astrology 1100–1800,” Studies in History and Philosophy of Biological and Biomedical Sciences 41 (2010): 67–68; Kuberski, Persistence of Memory, 76; and Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, 284–85.

165 Elyot, Dictionary, sig. Hhii. 166 Dee, preface to [Euclid,] The Elements of Geometrie, sigs. B3–­B3v; Patrick Curry,

“Astrology in Early Modern England: The Making of a Vulgar Knowledge,” in Science, Culture and Popular Belief in Renaissance Europe, ed. Stephen Pumfrey, Paolo L. Rossi, and Maurice Slawinski (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991), 277; Shumaker, Occult Sciences in the Renaissance, 7–8; and Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, 284–85.

167 Blount, Glossographia, sigs. E5v–­E6. 168 Blount, Glossographia, sig. E5v; Curry, “Astrology in Early Modern England,”

Kuberski, Persistence of Memory, 275; Shumaker, The Occult Sciences in the Renaissance, 8; Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic, 286; and Vickers, “On the Function of Analogy in the Occult,” 266.

169 Blount, Glossographia, sigs. E5v–­E6; Bullokar, English Expositor, sigs. B3 and F3v;

Cockeram, English Dictonarie (1623), sigs. A3 and B7; and Ralegh, History of the World, 202.

170 Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, fols. 32v–­33 and 250; Dee,

preface to [Euclid,] The Elements of Geometrie, sig. B4; and Moxon, Mathematicks made Easie, sig. B2v.

171 Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 46–47. 172 Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 95–96. 173 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 242–43; Eugenio Garin, Science and Civic

Life in the Italian Renaissance, trans. Peter Munz (Garden City, NY: Doubleday, 1969), 159; Haase, “Harmonics and Sacred Tradition,” in Godwin, Cosmic Music, 91–110; Paolo L. Rossi, “Society, Culture and the Dissemination of Learning,” in Science, Culture and Popular Belief in Renaissance Europe, ed. Stephen Pumfrey, Paolo L. Rossi, and Maurice Slawinski (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991), 144 and 160–61; Shumaker, Dee on Astronomy, 160–61; Occult Sciences in the Renaissance, 131–33; and Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic, 62 and 87–89.

174 See Hill, “Science and Magic,” 277. 175 Thomas Campion, A New Way of Making Fowre Parts in Counterpoint (London:

Printed by T. S. for John Browne, [1610]), sig. B6r–­v.

176 Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 31.

Notes to Pages 142–146  307 177 Wells, “Number Symbolism in the Renaissance Lute Rose,” 37–41. 178 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 240–43; Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, p. 95;

and Mirimonde, Astrologie et musique, 25–87 and 119–201.

179 J. B., Hagiastrologia, or, The most sacred and divine science of astrology (London:

William Bromwich, 1680), 86.

180 Godfridus, The Boke of Knowledge of Thyngs Unknowen [London]: [R. Wyer],

[1556?], sig. Fv.

181 Vincenzo Cartari, The Fountaine of Ancient Fiction, trans. Richard Linche (Lon-

don: Adam Islip, 1599), 195.

182 Mirimonde, Astrologie et musique, 17. 183 Cartari, Fountaine of Ancient Fiction, 197–98. 184 Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 95. 185 John Maplet, The Diall of Destiny (London: Thomas Marsh, 1581), fol. 20v. 186 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 172. 187 John Farmer, The First Set of English Madrigals (London: William Barley for

Thomas Morley, 1599), cantus partbook, sig. A2v. See also Mirimonde, Astrologie et musique, 119.

188 Anthony Gibson, A Womans Woorth (London: John Wolf, 1599), fol. 24v. 189 Maplet, Diall of Destiny, fol. 29v (i.e., 19v). 190 Baldassarre Castiglione, conte, The Courtyer of Count Balthesar Castilio, trans.

Thomas Hoby (London: Wyllyam Seres, 1561), sig. J2.

191 Blackburn, “The Lascivious Career of B-­flat,” 20–21; and Leofranc Holford-­

Strevens, “Fa mi la mi so la: The Erotic Implications of Solmization Syllables,” in Eroticism in Early Modern Music, ed. Bonnie Blackburn and Laurie Stras (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2015), 57.

192 J. B., Hagiastrologia, 86. 193 Ken McLeod, “Narrating a Nation: Venus on the Late Seventeenth-­Century

Stage,” Journal of Seventeenth-­Century Music 11, no. 1 (2005), http://​sscm​-­jscm​.org​ /v11​/no1​/mcleod​.html; Mirimonde, Astrologie et musique, 119; and Robin Headlam Wells, “The Orpharion: Symbol of a Humanist Ideal,” Early Music 10 (1982): 431–39.

194 Robert Hadaway, “An Instrument-­Maker’s Report on the Repair and Restoration

of an Orpharion,” Galpin Society Journal 28 (1975): 38–39 and 42; James B. Hall, Dictionary of Subjects and Symbols in Art, 2nd ed. (London: John Murray 1979), 238 and 318–19; Ian Harwood, Wire Strings at Helmingham Hall: An Instrument and a Music Book, Lute Society Booklets, no. 10 (Albury: Lute Society, 2005, 6–8; and Maplet, Diall of Destiny, fols. 21v–­22.

195 Maplet, fol. 22; and Grove Music Online, s.v. “Cittern,” by James Tyler, accessed

September 2, 2017, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com.

196 Maplet, Diall of Destiny, fol. 22. 197 Mirimonde, Astrologie et musique, 123 and 147–48; and Amanda Eubanks Winkler,

“From Whore to Stuart Ally: Musical Venuses on the Early Modern English

308  Notes to Pages 146 –150

Stage,” in Musical Voices of Early Modern Women: Many-­Headed Melodies, ed. Thomasin LaMay (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 172–74. 198 McLeod, “Narrating a Nation”; and Winkler, “From Whore to Stuart Ally,” 171–85. 199 John Chamber, A Treatise against Judicial Astrologie (London: John Harison, 1601),

84–85. See also Christopher Heydon, A Defense of Judiciall Astrologie (Cambridge: John Legat, 1603), 355–56.

200 Thomas Gain[e]sford, The Rich Cabinet (London: John Beale for Roger Jackson,

1616), fol. 165.

201 William Baldwin, A Marvelous Hystory intitulede, Beware the Cat (London: Wyl-

liam Gryffith, 1570), sigs. C4v–­C7v.

202 T[ommaso] Buoni, Problemes of Beawtie and All Humane Affections, trans. S. L.

(London: G. Eld for Edward Blount and William Aspley, 1606), sig. B7v.

203 Thomas Vaughan [Eugenius Philalethes], Magia Adamica: or the Antiquitie of

Magic (London: T. W. for H. Blunden, 1650), 1; Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 2–3; Paracelsus, Of the Supreme Mysteries of Nature, 81–83; Reynolds, Mythomystes, 52–53; and Shumaker, ed., Dee on Astronomy, 125–27.

204 John Donne, Sermon 42 “Preached at Lincolns Inne upon Trinity-­Sunday. 1620,”

in John Donne, LXXX Sermons (London: Richard Royston and Richard Marriot, 1640), 419.

205 Wright, Display of Dutie, 32. 206 Sir Thomas Browne, Religio Medici ([London]: Printed for Andrew Crooke,

1642),169–70.

207 Thomas Robinson, The Schoole of Musicke (London: Thomas Este for Simon

Waterson, 1603), sig. B.

208 Browne, Religio Medici, 169. 209 See Stevie Davies, The Feminine Reclaimed: The Idea of Woman in Spenser, Shake-

speare, and Milton (Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1986), 4.

210 Vern L. Bullough, The Subordinate Sex (Urbana: University of Illinois Press, 1973),

203; Davies, Feminine Reclaimed, 4; William Haller and Malleville Haller, “The Puritan Art of Love,” Huntington Library Quarterly 5 (1941–42): 237–39; Ian Maclean, The Renaissance Notion of Woman (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1980), 24–26; and Betty Travitsky, The Paradise of Women (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 1981), 7.

211 Browne, Religio Medici, 169. 212 Henry Smith, Sermons (London: Richard Field for Thomas Man, 1593), 35. 213 John King, Vitis Palatina (London: John Bill, 1614), 28–29. 214 Daniel Rogers, Matrimoniall Honour (London: Thomas Harper for Philip Nevil,

1642), 149. See also 184.

215 Fifteen Real Comforts of Matrimony (London: Benjamin Alsop and Thomas Mal-

thus, 1683), title page and 19.

216 Lawrence Stone, The Family, Sex and Marriage in England 1500–1800 (London:

Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1977), 136–37 and 324–28.

Notes to Pages 151–159  309 217 Fifteen Real Comforts of Matrimony, 186. 218 Praise of Musicke, 85. 219 William Byrd, John Bull, and Orlando Gibbons, Parthenia: or, the Maydenhead

(London: Mris. Dor[ethie] Evans [1613?]), sig. Av.

220 For more information about Elizabeth’s involvement with music, see Janet

Pollack, “Princess Elizabeth Stuart as Musician and Muse,” in Musical Voices of Early Modern Women: Many-­Headed Melodies, ed. Thomasin LaMay (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005), 407–21.

221 Thomas Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cam-

bridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1990), 11.

222 The Ladies Dictionarie; Being a General Entertainment for the Fair-­Sex (London:

John Dunton, 1694), 283.

223 Rogers, Matrimoniall Honour, 146.

Chapter Four 1 Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 1–8; and Stephen McAdams, “Music: A Science

of the Mind?,” Contemporary Music Review 2 (1987): 4–5.

2

John Henry Alsted (Johannes Henricus Alstedius), Templum Musicum: or The Musical Synopsis, trans. John Birchensha (London: William Godbid for Peter Dring, 1663 [1664]), frontispiece; Christopher D. S. Field and Benjamin Wardhaugh, eds., John Birchensha: Writings on Music, Music Theory in Britain, 1500– 1700: Critical Editions (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010), 75; and Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Alsted, Johann Heinrich,” by Ingo Schultz and Howard Hotson, accessed September 29, 2017, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​.com.

3

Aristides Quintilianus, On Music, in Three Books, trans. Thomas J. Mathiesen (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983), 166; and Andrew Barker, ed., Greek Musical Writings, vol. 2, Harmonic and Acoustic Theory (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press), 396 and 501. Boethius uses the same numbers for harmonic ratios but different ones for arithmetic and geometric ratios; Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 65–66.

4

For succinct summaries of early modern English beliefs about the powers of music, see Morrison Comegys Boyd, Elizabethan Music and Musical Criticism, 2nd ed. (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1962), 29–34; Katherine Butler, “In Praise of Music: Motets, Inscriptions, and Music Philosophy in Robert Dow’s Partbooks,” Early Music 45 (2017): 90–93; and Christopher W. Marsh, Music and Society in Early Modern England (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 32–70.

5

N[icholas] L[ing], Politeuphuia. Witts Common wealth, 2nd ed. (London: J. R[oberts] for Nicholas Ling, 1598), fol. 195v.

6

Robert Allott, Wits Theater of the Little World (London: J. R. for N. L., 1599), sigs. A2r–­v and fol. 96v.

7

Richard Edwards, The Paradyse of daynty devises (London: Henry Disle, 1576), 55. The book was reissued by different London printers in 1577, 1578, 1580, 1585, 1600, and 1606. For information about extant musical settings of the poem, see

310  Notes to Pages 159 –163

­ [rederick] W. Sternfeld, Music in Shakespearean Tragedy (London: Routledge F and Kegan Paul, 1963), 119–22. 8

William Ingpen, The Secrets of Numbers; According to Their Theologicall, Arithmeticall, Geometricall and Harmonicall Computation (London: Humfrey Lowns for John Parker, 1624), 20–25, 30–31, and 70.

9 Ling, Politeuphua (1598), fol. 197. 10 Ling, fol. 195v. 11

Baldassarre Castiglione, conte, The Courtyer of Count Balthesar Castilio, trans. Thomas Hoby (London: Wyllyam Seres, 1561), sig. Jii.

12 William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, act 5,[scene 1], lines 69–88, Come-

dies, Histories and Tragedies (London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), p. 182.

13 Linda Phyllis Austern, introduction to Music, Sensation, and Sensuality, ed. Linda

Phyllis Austern (New York: Routledge, 2002), 2 and 7; Tia DeNora, “Music and Self-­Identity,” in The Popular Music Studies Reader, ed. A. Bennett et al. (London: Routledge, 2006), 144; Hauke Egermann and Stephen McAdams, “Empathy and Emotional Contagion as a Link between Recognized and Felt Emotions in Music Listening,” Music Perception 31 (2013): 139–56; Penelope Gouk, “Raising Spirits and Restoring Souls: Early Modern Medical Explanations for Music’s Effects,” in Hearing Cultures: Essays on Sound, Listening, and Modernity, ed. Veit Erlmann (Oxford: Berg, 2004), 88–89; Patrik N. Juslin and Daniel Västfjäll, “Emotional Responses to Music: The Need to Consider Underlying Mechanisms,” Behavioral and Brain Sciences 31 (2008): 559–75; Robin Maconie, The Concept of Music (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 13; Bruce R. Smith, The Acoustic World of Early Modern England: Attending to the O-­Factor (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1999), 6–10; Martin Stokes, introduction to Ethnicity, Identity and Music: The Musical Construction of Place, ed. Martin Stokes (Oxford: Berg, 1994), 5; Thomas Turino, Music as Social Life (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 93–94 and 106; and Jonna Vuoskoski, Eric F. Clarke, and Tia DeNora, “Music Listening Evokes Implicit Affiliation,” Psychology of Music 45 (2017): 584–99.

14 Henry Peacham [the Younger], The Compleat Gentleman, 2nd ed. (London: Francis

Constable, 1634), 96.

15 Castiglione, Courtyer, sig. Jiir–­v. 16 Ling, Politeuphua (1598), fol. 197. 17 McAdams, “Music: A Science of the Mind?,” 2. 18 Charles Butler, The Principles of Musik, in Singing and Setting (London: Printed by

John Haviland, 1636), 1–2.

19 Francis Meres, Wits Common Wealth, the second part (London: William Stansby for

Richard Royston, 1634), 637.

20 On the origins of this topos, see Gretchen L. Finney, “Music, Mirth, and Galenic

Tradition in England,” in Reason and the Imagination: Studies in the History of Ideas, 1600–1800, ed. J. A. Mazzeo (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1962), 143; Kassler, “Music as a Model in Early Science,” 126–27; and “Apollo and Dionysos: Music Theory and the Western Tradition of Epistemology,” in Music and Civilization: Essays in Honor of Paul Henry Lang, ed. Edmond Strainchamps and Maria Rika Maniates (New York: W. W. Norton, 1984), 459.

Notes to Pages 164–169  311 21 For further information about this transmission, see Penelope M. Gouk, “Music

in Francis Bacon’s Natural Philosophy,” in Francis Bacon: Terminologia e fortuna nel XVII secolo, ed. Marta Fattori, Lessico Intellettuale Europeo 33 (Roma: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1984), 143; Kassler, “Apollo and Dionysos,” 459; and Gary A. Tomlinson, “Preliminary Thoughts on the Relations of Music and Magic in the Renaissance,” in In Cantu et in sermone: For Nino Pirrotta on His 80th Birthday, ed. Fabrizio Della Serta and Franco Piperno, University of Western Australia Italian Medieval and Renaissance Studies 2 (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1989), 122.

22 L[eonard] Wright, A Display of Dutie: Dect With Sage Sayings, Pythie Sentences,

and Proper Similies (London: John Wolfe, 1589), 32–34.

23 Butler, Principles of Musik, 1. See also René Descartes [Renatus Des-­Cartes], Com-

pendium of Musick, anon. trans. (London: Thomas Harper for Humphrey Moseley, 1653), 1; and John Dowland, dedication to Andreas Ornithoparcus, Micrologie, or Introduction: Containing the Art of Singing, trans. John Dowland (London: Thomas Adams, 1609), sig. A2v.

24 Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 48–51; and McAdams, “Music: A Science of the

Mind,” 4–5.

25 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 257–63 and 275; and Boethius, Funda-

mentals of Music, 2.

26 The Praise of Musicke (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1586), 40–41. 27 See Christopher Butler, Number Symbolism (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul,

1970), 101; and S. K. Heninger, Touches of Sweet Harmony: Pythagorean Cosmology and Renaissance Poetics (San Marino, CA: Huntington Library, 1974), 103.

28 André Du Laurens [Andreas Laurentius], A Discourse of the Preservation of the

Sight: of Melancholike Diseases; of Rheumes, and of Old age, trans. Richard Surphlet (London: Felix Kingston for Ralph Jacson, 1599), 73.

29 Sir John Davies, Nosce Teipsum (London: Richard Field for John Standish, 1599),

19.

30 Andreas Ornithoparcus, Micrologus, or Introduction: Containing the Art of Singing,

trans. John Dowland (London: Thomas Adams, 1609), sig. C.

31 For comparison, see Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 2. 32 Thomas Robinson, The Schoole of Musicke (London: Thomas Este for Simon

Waterson, 1603), sig. B. See also Agrippa von Nettesheim, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, trans. J. F. (London: R. W. for Gregory Moule, 1651), 259–60; and Thomas Campion, A New Way of Making Fowre Parts in Counterpoint (London: Printed by T. S. for John Browne, [1610]), sigs. B2r–­v.

33 François Jacob, The Logic of Life, trans. Betty E. Spillman (New York: Pantheon

Books, 1973), 33; Mark A. Schneider, Culture and Enchantment (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), ix, 2, and 116–17; and D. P. Walker, Spiritual and Demonic Magic from Ficino to Campanella (London: Warburg Institute, 1958), 75–76.

34 Dowland, dedication to Ornithoparcus, Micrologus, or Introduction, sig. A2v;

George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Metaphors We Live By (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1980), 27; and Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 240–41 and 249–55.

312  Notes to Pages 16 9 –172 35 Du Laurens, Preservation of the Sight, 72. 36 Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, s.v. “Northbrooke, John (fl. 1567–1589),”

by Martha C. Skeeters, accessed November 23, 2017, http://​www​.oxforddnb​.com​ /view​/article​/20323; and John Northbrooke, Spiritus est vicarius Christi in terra (London: Thomas Dawson for George Bishoppe, 1579), 77.

37 Benjamin Boretz, “(‘Starting Now, From Here, . . .’). Three Consecutive Occasions

of Sociomusical Reflection,” Perspectives of New Music 30 (1992): 253–56; Robin Maconie, The Concept of Music (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 11 and 14; and Vuoskoski, and DeNora, “Music Listening Evokes Implicit Affiliation,” 584–99.

38 Christopher Simpson, A Compendium of Practical Musick (London: William God-

bid for Henry Brome, 1667), sig. A8v.

39 Boethius, Fundamentals of Music, 3–5. 40 Richard Mulcaster, Positions Wherein Those Primitive Circumstances Be Examined,

Which are Necessarie for the Training Up of Children (London: Thomas Vautrollier for Thomas Chare, 1581), 38–39.

41 John Marston, The Wonder of Women Or The Tragedie of Sophonisba (London: John

Windet, 1605), Act IV, scene I, sig. Ev.

42 Joseph Moxon, Mathematicks made Easie: or, A Mathematical Dictionary (London:

Joseph Moxon, 1679), 93.

43 Richard Brathwaite, Essaies Upon the Five Senses (London: Printed by E. G. for

Richard Whittaker, 1620), 1–2; Graham Freeman, “The Transmission of Lute Music and the Culture of Aurality in Early Modern England,” in Beyond Boundaries: Rethinking Music Circulation in Early Modern England, ed. Linda Phyllis Austern, Candace Bailey, and Amanda Eubanks Winkler (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2017), 45–47; Smith, Acoustic World of Early Modern England, 10–13; and John N. Wall, “Shakespeare’s Aural Art: The Metaphor of the Ear in Othello,” Shakespeare Quarterly 30 (1979): 359.

44 Helkiah Crooke, Mikrokosmographia: A Description of the Body of Man (London:

[William Jaggard], 1615), 698.

45 H. Floris Cohen, “La musique comme science physique et mathematique au XVIIe

siecle,” in Musique et humanisme a la Renaissance, Cahiers V. L. Saulnier 10 (Paris: Presses de l’Ecole supérieure, 1993), 73–81; Penelope Gouk, “Acoustics in the Early Royal Society 1660–1680,” Notes and Records of the Royal Society of London 36 (1982): 155–75; “Some English Theories of Hearing in the Seventeenth Century: Before and after Descartes,” in The Second Sense, ed. Charles Burnett, Michael Fend, and Penelope Gouk (London: Warburg Institute, 1991), 95–99; Smith, Acoustic World of Early Modern England, 1–129 and 206–45; and Benjamin Wardhaugh, Music, Experiment and Mathematics in England, 1653–1705 (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2008), 59–82.

46 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 696. 47 H. F[loris] Cohen, Quantifying Music: The Science of Music at the First Stage of

the Scientific Revolution, 1580–1650 (Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1984); Sigalia Dostrovsky, “Early Vibration Theory: Physics and Music in the Seventeenth Century,” Archive for the History of Exact Sciences 14 (1974/75): 169–218; Gouk, “The Harmonic Roots of Newtonian Science,” in Let Newton Be!, ed. John Fauvel, Raymond Flood, Michael Shortland, and Robin Wilson (Oxford: Oxford University Press,

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1988), 101–25; and Frederick Vinton Hunt, Origins in Acoustics: The Science of Sound from Antiquity to the Age of Newton (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1978), 78–140. 48 Francis Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum or a Naturall History (London: W. Lee, 1629),

35–78; Cohen, Quantifying Music, 206–07; Gouk, “Music in Francis Bacon’s Natural Philosophy,” 139–48; Music, Science and Natural Magic in Seventeenth-­Century England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1999), 160–61; “Some English Theories of Hearing,” 98–99 and 102–4; Hunt, Origins in Acoustics, 76–77; Graham Rees, “Francis Bacon and Spiritus vitalis,” in Spiritus: Ivo colloquio internazionale, ed. M. Fattori and M. Bianchi, Lessico intelletuale Europeo 32 (Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1984), 267–68; “Francis Bacon’s Semi-­Paracelsian Cosmology and the Great Instauration,” Ambix 22 (1975): 81–101; Paolo Rossi, “Hermeticism, Rationality and the Scientific Revolution,” in Reason, Experiment and Mysticism in the Scientific Revolution, ed. M. L. Righini Bonelli and William R. Shea (New York: Science History Publications, 1975), 258; Francis Bacon: From Magic to Science, trans. Sacha Rabinovitch (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1968), 9–14; D. P. Walker, Studies in Musical Science of the Late Renaissance (London: Warburg Institute, 1978), 5; and Charles Whitney, Francis Bacon and Modernity (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1986),79–125.

49 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 693; Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic,

248–51; and Wardhaugh, Music, Experiment and Mathematics, 72–82.

50 Kenelm Digby, Two Treatises (Paris: Gilles Blaizot, 1644), 250 and 256–57. 51 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 693; and Francis Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 41. 52 Alexander Read, The Manuall of the Anatomy or dissection of the body of Man

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53 Thomas Wright, Passions of the Minde in Generall, rev. ed. (London: Valentine

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of Hearing,” 98.

56 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 696–98. 57 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 64. 58 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 660–61 and 696–98; Ioan P. Couliano, Eros and

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314  Notes to Pages 175–189 59 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 64. 60 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 698. 61 Crooke, 658–59; and Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “passion, n.,” accessed Decem-

ber 30, 2017, http://​www​.oed​.com.

62 Crooke, Mikrocosmographia, 646–47; see also 657–59. 63 Crooke, 647–51; and Sydenham, “Wel-­Tun’d Cymball, 21–22. See also Constance

Classen, “Fingerprints: Writing about Touch,” in The Book of Touch, ed. Constance Classen (Oxford: Berg, 2005), 3; and Susan Stewart, “Remembering the Senses,” in Empire of the Senses, ed. David Howes (Oxford: Berg, 2005), 61.

64 Naomi Cumming, The Sonic Self: Musical Subjectivity and Signification (Bloom-

ington: Indiana University Press, 2000), 276–77; Gregoric, Aristotle on the Common Sense, 84; Danijela Kambaskovic and Charles T. Wolfe, “The Senses in Philosophy and Science: From the Nobility of Sight to the Materialism of Touch,” in Roodenburg, Cultural History of the Senses, 108–13; Annette Kern-­Stähler and Kathrin Scheuchzer, introduction to The Five Senses in Medieval and Early Modern England, ed. Annette Kern-­Stähler, Beatrix Busse, and Wietse de Boer (Leiden: Brill, 2016), 3–5; and Maconie, Concept of Music, 27–28.

65 Francis Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning (London: Thomas

Purfoot and Thomas Creede for Henrie Tomes, 1605), 204–05.

66 Praise of Musicke, 1 67 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 37. 68 David Summers, The Judgment of Sense: Renaissance Naturalism and the Rise of Aes-

thetics (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1987), 50–51.

69 Thomas Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (London:

Peter Short, 1597), 177–78; and Butler, Principles of Musik, 96.

70 Thomas Weelkes, Madrigals of 5. and 6. parts apt for the Viols and voices (London:

Thomas Este for Thomas Morley, 1600), cantus partbook, sig. D2r–­v.

71 For further information about the intellectual and cultural contexts of this madri-

gal, see Eric Lewin Altschuler and William Jansen, “Further Aspects of ‘Thule’: Wondrous Weelkes,” Musical Times 144 (2003): 40–43; Eric Lewin Altschuler and William Jansen, “Men of Letters: Thomas Weelkes’s Text Authors,” Musical Times 143 (2002): 17–24; Enrique Alberto Arias, “Maps and Music: How the Bounding Confidence of the Elizabethan Age was Celebrated in a Madrigal by Thomas Weelkes,” Early Music America 9 (2003): 28–33; and John J. Milne, “On the Identity of Weelkes’s ‘Fogo,’” RMA Research Chronicle 10 (1972): 98–100.

72 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 183–84; Lorraine Daston and Katharine Park, Wonders and

the Orders of Nature 1150–750 (New York: Zone, 1998), 112–14; and René Descartes, The Passions of the Soul, trans. Stephen Voss (Indianapolis: Hackett, 1989), 56–58

73 Sydenham, Wel-­Tun’d Cymball, 21. 74 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 187. 75 Sir John Harington, The Most Elegant and Witty Epigrams (London: G. P. for John

Budge, 1618), sig. K. See also Linda Phyllis Austern, “‘Sing Againe Syren’: The Female Musician and Sexual Enchantment in Elizabethan Life and Literature,” Renaissance Quarterly 42 (1989): 420–48.

Notes to Pages 190 –195  315 76 William Shakespeare, Sonnets (London: G. Eld for T[homas] T[horpe], 1609), sig.

H3v. See also Linda Phyllis Austern, “Musical Treatments for Lovesickness,” in Maternal Measures: Figuring Caregiving in the Early Modern Period, ed. Naomi J. Miller and Naomi Yavneh (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 231–32; and Regula Hohl Trillini, The Gaze of the Listener: English Representations of Domestic Music-­Making (Amsterdam: Rodopi, 2008), 23–26 and 29.

77 George Chapman, Ovids Banquet of Sence (London: J. R. for Richard Smith, 1595),

sigs. B2v–­B3v.

78 Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, p. 8; and Summers, Judgment of Sense, pp. 52–53. 79 Robert Jones, Ultimum Vale, with a Triplicitie of Musicke (London: John Windet,

1605) sig. A2.

80 Praise of Musicke, 37. 81 [Nicholas Brady and Henry Purcell], [’Tis Natures Voice:] A Song Set by Mr. Henry

Purcell [London]: [Thomas Cross], [1693].

82 Crooke, Mikrokosmographia, 658–59; Couliano, Eros and Magic, 4–5; Heller-­

Roazen, Inner Touch, 164–78; George Makari, Soul Machine: The Invention of the Modern Mind (New York: W. W. Norton, 2015), 18–41; Martensen, Brain Takes Shape, 57–59; and Stephen Pender, “Medicine and the Senses,” in Roodenburg, Cultural History of the Senses, 132–35.

83

Heller-­Roazen, Inner Touch, 163–68; Martensen, Brain Takes Shape, 28–91; and Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, 74–89.

84 Peacham, Compleat Gentleman, 97. 85 John Case, Apologia musices (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1588), 67–68. 86 Wright, Passions of the Minde, 171. 87 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 38. 88 John Donne, LXXX Sermons (London: Richard Royston and Richard Marriot,

1640), 319 (sermon 32) and 335 (sermon 34).

89 T[homas] W[alkington], The Opticke Glasse of Humors ([London]: J. D. for L. B.,

1639), 98–99. See also Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 257–58; Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy (1632), 15; F. N. Coeffeteau, A Table of Humane Passions, trans. Edw[ard] Grimeston (London: Printed for Nicholas Okes, 1621), 13–14; Allen G, Debus, “Chemistry and the Quest for a Material Spirit of Life in the Seventeenth Century,” in Fattori and Bianchi, Spiritus: Ivo colloquio internazionale, 246–48; More, Immortality of the Soule, 161; Penelope Gouk, “Music and Spirit in Early Modern Thought,” in Emotions and Health, ed. Elena Carrera (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 222–24; Graham Rees, “Francis Bacon and Spiritus vitalis,” 268–81; John Spencer, Votivae Angliae: Englands Complaint to their King (London: H. Dudley, 1643), 90; D. P. Walker, “Medical Spirits and God and the Soul,” in Fattori and Bianchi, Spiritus: Ivo colloquio internazionale, 223; and B. H. G. Wormald, Francis Bacon: History, Politics, and Science, 1561–1626 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1993), 269.

90 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 258; Bacon, History Naturall And

Experimentall Of Life and Death (London: John Haviland for William Lee and Humphrey Mosley, 1638), 17–18; Case, Apologia musices, 26–27; Brian Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture from Antiquity to the Enlightenment (Cambridge: Cam-

316  Notes to Pages 196 –19 9

bridge University Press, 2015), 24, 57, and 254; Marsilio Ficino, Three Books on Life, ed., trans., and with introduction and notes by Carol V. Kaske and John R. Clark, Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies 57 (Binghamton, NY: Medieval and Renaissance Texts and Studies, 1989), 358–59; and Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 95. 91 James J. Bono, “Medical Spirits and the Medieval Language of Life,” Traditio 40

(1984): 91–92 and 98; Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 260–61; Couliano, Eros and Magic, 4–5; Gretchen Ludke Finney, “Music: The Breath of Life,” Centennial Review of Arts and Sciences 4 (1960): 180–85; Musical Backgrounds for English Literature 1580–1650 (New Brunswick, NJ: Rutgers University Press, 1962), 101–16; Rees, “Francis Bacon and Spiritus vitalis,” 266–67; Richard Sugg, The Smoke of the Soul: Medicine, Physiology and Religion in Early Modern England (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2013), 15–18; Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, pp. 34–35; Walker, Spiritual and Demonic Magic, 76–78; “Medical Spirits and God and the Soul,” in Fattori and Bianchi, Spiritus: Ivo colloquio internazionale, 223–25; and Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “spirit, n.,” accessed January 13, 2018, http://​www​.oed​.com.

92 Debus, “Chemistry and the Quest for a Material Spirit,” 245; and Finney, “Music:

The Breath of Life,” 181.

93 Henry More, The Immortality of the Soul (London: J. Flesher for William Morden,

1659), 16.

94 More, 24–25. 95 Steven Halpern and Louis Savary, Sound Health: The Music and Sounds That Make

Us Whole (San Francisco: Harper and Row, 1985), 162.

96 John Dowland, First Booke of Songs or Ayres (London: Peter Short, 1597), title

page; Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 180; and Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “air, n.1. II. Melody. 10,” accessed January 20, 2018, http://​www​.oed​.com.

97 Crooke, Mikrocosmographia, 574; Ficino, Three Books on Life, 358–59; Fludd

Utriusque cosmi majoris, 2:217; Smith, Acoustic World of Early Modern England, 98–99; Stewart, “Remembering the Senses,” 61; and Sugg, Smoke of the Soul, 16–17.

98 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 258; Ficino, Three Books on Life, 358–59;

Smith, Acoustic World of Early Modern England, 99; and Sugg, Smoke of the Soul, 15.

99 Spencer, Votivae Angliae, title page and p. 90. 100 Martensen, Brain Takes Shape, 61; Smith, Acoustic World of Early Modern England,

98–99; Sugg, Smoke of the Soul, 15–20; Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, 32–35; and Walkington, Opticke Glasse of Humors, 97–98.

101 Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy (1632), 297. See also Ruth L. Anderson, “As Heart

Can Think,” Shakespeare Association Bulletin 12 (1937): 248–50.

102 George Sandys, Ovids Metamorphosis Englished, Mythologiz’d and Represented in

Figures (Oxford: John Lichfield, 1632), 356.

103 Meres, Wits Common Wealth, 837. See also David L. Burrows, Sound, Speech and

Music (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 1990), 20–26; and Smith, Acoustic World of Early Modern England, 98–106.

104 Tobias Hume, Poeticall Musicke (London: John Windet, 1607), sigs. L2v–­M.

Notes to Pages 200 –205  317 105 Francis Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 72; Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 260–61;

Finney, “Music: The Breath of Life,” 189; Musical Backgrounds for English Literature, 111; Hume, Poeticall Musicke, sigs. L2v–­M; Maria Paz López-­Peláez Casellas, “‘No la una sin las dos’: Sympathetic Vibration in Emblem Treatises,” Music in Art 35 (2010): 145–46; and Gary Tomlinson, Music in Renaissance Magic: Toward a Historiography of Others (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1993), 110–13.

106 Kenelm Digby, A Late Discourse, trans. R. White (London: R. Lownes for

T. Davies, 1658), 95; Peacham, Compleat Gentleman, 104; and Giambattista della Porta [ John Baptista Porta], Natural Magick: In XX Books, (London: Thomas Young and Samuel Speed, 1658), 405. For further information about acoustic experiments with instruments during the seventeenth century, see Gouk, Music, Science and Natural Magic, 166–77.

107 John Davies of Hereford, Microcosmos (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1603), 60–61. 108 Sydenham, Wel-­Tun’d Cymball, 20. 109 For a summary of changing meanings of sympathy in seventeenth-­century

England, see Seth Lobis, The Virtue of Sympathy: Magic, Philosophy, and Literature in Seventeenth-­Century England (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2015), 1–16.

110 Casellas, “No la una sin las dos,” 146–51; J[acob] Cats, Proteus ofte Minne-­Beelden

(Rotterdam: Pieter van Waesberge, 1627), 254; Jacob Cats, Sinne- en minnebelden (Amsterdam, n.p., 1618), 85; Ludovicus van Leuven, Amoris Divini et Humani Antipathia (Antwerp: Michaëlem Snyders, 1629), p. 148; and “Sympathia Amoris” and “Tuning the Lute,” Emblematica Online, http://​emblematica​.grainger​.illinois​ .edu/.

111 Digby, Late Discourse, 95–96. 112 Katherine Philips, The Collected Works of Katherine Philips, the Matchless Orinda,

vol. 1, The Poems, ed. Patrick Thomas (Stumps Cross: Stumps Cross Press, 1990), poem 59, stanza 18, 156. For more about the literary conceit of correspondence between instruments and the human body, see John Hollander, The Untuning of the Sky: Ideas of Music in English Poetry, 1500–1700 (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1961), 132–37.

113 Descartes, Compendium of Musick, 1. See also Simpson, Compendium of Practical

Musick, 112.

114 A. B. Philo-­Mus, Synopsis of Vocal Musick, ed. and with an introduction by

Rebecca Herissone, Music Theory in Britain, 1500–1700: Critical Editions (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2006), 67.

115 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 257. 116 Ingpen, Secrets of Numbers, 51. 117 Heller-­Roazen, Inner Touch, 163–68; Martensen, Brain Takes Shape, 47–62;

Katherine Park, “The Organic Soul,” in Schmitt, Skinner, and Kessler, Cambridge History of Renaissance Philosophy, 465–73; Herman Roodenburg, “Introduction: Entering the Sensory Worlds of the Renaissance,” in Roodenburg, Cultural History of the Senses, 5–6; Dennis L. Sepper, Descarte’s Imagination: Proportion, Images, and the Activity of Thinking (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996), 13–26; C. U. M. Smith, “Beginnings: Ventricular Psychology,” in Brain, Mind and Consciousness in the History of Neuroscience, ed. C. U. M. Smith and Harry Whitaker

318  Notes to Pages 20 6 –210

(Dordrecht: Springer, 2014), 8–14; Sugg, Smoke of the Soul, 27–32; and Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, 31–35 and 74–81. 118 Gregor Reisch, Margarita Philosophica ([Freiburg]: Joanne[m] Schottu[m] Argen-

[toratensis], 1503), sig. F7; and Hieronymus Brunschwig, The noble experyence of the vertuous handy warke of surgery, anon. trans. (London: Peter Treveris, 1625), sig. B1.

119 Heller-­Roazen, Inner Touch, 163–68; Martensen, Brain Takes Shape, 47–62; Park,

“Organic Soul,” 465–73; Smith, “Beginnings,” 8–14; and Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, 31–35 and 74–81.

120 Coeffeteau, Table of Humane Passions, 15–16. See also Couliano, Eros and Magic, 5;

E. Ruth Harvey, The Inward Wits: Psychological Theory in the Middle Ages and Renaissance (London: Warburg Institute, 1975), 1–61; and Summers, Judgment of Sense, 62.

121 Couliano, Eros and Magic, 5–6; Charlotte F. Otten, “Eros Vulgarized: the English

Vocabulary of Medical Writing on Sexuality in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,” in Eros and Anteros, ed. Donald A. Beecher and Massimo Ciavolella (Ottawa: Dovehouse, 1992), 199; Park, “Organic Soul,” 470–71; Summers, Judgment of Sense, 62–63; and Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, 33.

122 John Marston, The History of Antonio and Mellida: The First Part (London:

Mathewe Lownes and Thomas Fisher, 1602), act 3, sig. E3v.

123 Copenhaver, Magic in Western Culture, 268, 318, and 325; Couliano, Eros and

Magic, 92–93; Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “Fancy, n. and adj.,” and “Fantasy | phantasy, n.,” accessed February 10, 2018, http://​www​.oed​.com; Thomas Fludd, Tomus secundus de supernaturali, naturali, praeternaturali et conotranaturali (Openhemii: Johannes Theodor de Bry, 1621), 217; Park, “Organic Soul,” 471; Sepper, Descarte’s Imagination, 24 and 71–72; Smith, “Beginnings,” 11; Summers, Judgment of Sense, 62; and Louise Vinge, The Five Senses: Studies in a Literary Tradition (Lund, Sweden: Royal Society of Letters, 1975), 74.

124 William Vaughan, Approved Directions for Health, 4th ed., corr. and enl. (London:

T. S. for Roger Jackson, 1612), 63.

125 Du Laurens, Preservation of the Sight, 74. 126 See Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, 210–11; Copenhaver,

Magic in Western Culture, 279; René Descartes, The Passions of the Soule, anon. trans. (London: A.C. for J. Martin and J. Ridley, 1650), 22–23; Michel Foucault, The Care of the Self: The History of Sexuality, vol. 3, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Random House, 1988), 136–37; Otten, “Eros Vulgarized,” 200; Walter Pagel, Paracelsus: An Introduction to Philosophical Medicine in the Era of the Renaissance, 2nd ed. (Basel: S. Karger, 1982), 122–23; and Lynn Thorndike, “Imagination and Magic: The Force of Imagination on the Human Body and of Magic on the Human Mind,” in Mélanges Eugène Tisserant, vol. 7, Bibliotheque vaticane, deuxième partie, Studi e testi 237 (Vatican City: Biblioteca apostolica vaticana, 1964): 353–56.

127 More, Immortality of the Soule, 162; William E. Engel, Rory Loughnane, and Grant

Williams, introduction to The Memory Arts in Renaissance England: A Critical Anthology, ed. William E. Engel, Rory Loughnane, and Grant Williams (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016), 4 and 19–21; Erin Minear, Reverberating Song in Shakespeare and Milton: Language, Memory and Musical Representation (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2011), 10–11; Park, “Organic Soul,” 466–67 and

Notes to Pages 210 –214  319

470–71; Garrett Sullivan, Memory and Forgetting in English Renaissance Drama (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 7; Vidal, Sciences of the Soul, 33; John Willis, Mnemonica, or, The Art of Memory (London: Leonard Sowersby, 1661), sig. A5v; and Francis A. Yates, The Art of Memory (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1966), 32–33. 128 Du Laurens, Preservation of the Sight, 77. 129 Shakespeare, The Tragedie of Romeo and Juliet, act 1, scene 4, lines 98–99, Come-

dies, Histories and Tragedies (London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), 57.

130 Agrippa, Three Books of Occult Philosophy, 255. 131 Descartes, Compendium of Musick, 4–5; Mulcaster, Positions, 427; and Thomas

Ravenscroft, A Briefe Discourse, of the True (but neglected) Use of Charact’ring the Degrees (London: Printed by Edw[ard] Allde for Tho[mas] Adams, 1614), sig. A3v.

132 John Wallis, “A Letter . . . concerning the Strange Effects reported of Musick in

Former Times,” Philosophical Transactions [of the Royal Society of London] 20/21 (1698–99): 297. See also Minear, Reverberating Song, 11–13.

133 William Holder, A Treatise of the Natural Grounds and Principles of Harmony (Lon-

don: J. Helptinstall for J. Carr, B. Aylmer, W. Hensman, and L. Meredith, 1694), 197–98.

134 Thomas Weelkes, Ayeres or Phantasticke Spirites for three voices (London: William

Barley, 1608), cantus partbook, title page sig. A2.

135 Hume, Poeticall Musicke, sig. Gv. 136 Wallis, “A Letter.” 137 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 180–81; see also OED, s.v. “Fantasy | phan-

tasy, n.”

138 Simpson, Compendium of Practical Musick, 115. 139 Roger North, Notes of Me: The Autobiography, ed. Peter Millard (Toronto: Univer-

sity of Toronto Press, 2000), 156; and James Grassineau, trans. and ed., A Musical Dictionary: being a Collection of Terms and Characters, as well Ancient as Modern (London: C. Jephson for J. Wilcox, 1740), 73.

140 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 38. 141 The subjective individuality encouraged in composing fantasies has made the

genre difficult for modern scholars to pin down. Useful starting-­points include Oxford Music Online, s.v. “Fantasia,” by Christopher D. S. Field, E. Eugene Helm, and William Drabkin, accessed February 12, 2018, http://​www​.oxfordmusiconline​ .com.; Rebecca Herissone, Musical Creativity in Restoration England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2013), 173–82 and 262–63; Peter Holman, Four and Twenty Fiddlers: The Violin at the English Court, 1540–1690 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993), 212–24 and 251; Tihomir Popović, “‘Leaving the Key’ in ‘Gravity and Piety’: Zur Tonartbehandlung in William Byrds Fantasien für Tasteninstrumente,” Zeitschrift der Gesellschaft für Musiktheorie 8 (2011): 407–26; Matthew Spring, The Lute in Britain: A History of the Instrument and Its Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 144–46; Graham Strahle, “Fantasy and Music in Sixteenth- and Seventeenth-­Century England,” Chelys: The Journal of the Viola da Gamba Society 17 (1988): 28–32; Irwin Spector, introduction to The Instrumental

320  Notes to Pages 214–222

Music of Robert White, ed. Irwin Spector (Madison, WI: A-­R Editions, 1972), 8–9; and Christopher R. Wilson and Michela Calore, Music in Shakespeare: A Dictionary (London: Thoemmes Continuum, 2005), 168–69. 142 Wallis, “A Letter.” 143 Shakespeare, Twelfth Night, act 1, scene 1, lines 1–3, Comedies, Histories and Trage-

dies (London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), 255.

144 Shakespeare, act 1, scene 1, lines 4–15, 255. 145 For more on concert performance as formal ritual, see Stan Godlovich, “The

Integrity of Musical Performance,” Journal of Aesthetics and Art Criticism 51 (1993): 573–87; and Christopher Small, Musicking: The Meanings of Performing and Listening (Middletown, CT: Wesleyan University Press, 1998), 27–28 and 39–44.

Chapter Five 1

Thurston Dart, “Miss Mary Burwell’s Instruction Book for the Lute,” Galpin Society Journal 11 (1958): 5–6; and Robert Spencer, introductory study to The Burwell Lute Tutor, Reproductions of Early Music 1 (Leeds: Boethius, 1974).

2

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 24.

3

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 43v and 44.

4

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 43v.

5

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 43. See also fol. 41v.

6

Helen Smith, “‘More swete unto the eare / than holsome for ye minde’: Embodying Early Modern Women’s Reading,” Huntington Library Quarterly 73 (2010): 426.

7

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 45.

8

Linda Phyllis Austern, “’My Mother Musicke’: Music and Early Modern Fantasies of Embodiment” and “Musical Treatments for Lovesickness,” in Maternal Measures: Figuring Caregiving in the Early Modern Period, ed. Naomi J. Miller and Naomi Yavneh (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 254–58 and 232; and Richard Leppert, The Sight of Sound: Music, Representation, and the History of the Body (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1995), 47–51.

9

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 43r–­v; see also Thomas Robinson, The Schoole of Musicke (London: Thomas Este for Simon Waterson, 1603), sig. B.

10 Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 43v. 11

Burwell Lute Tutor, fol. 44; see also fol. 24.

12 Francis Bacon, Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, Divine and

Humane (London: Thomas Purfoot and Thomas Creede for Henrie Tomes, 1605), 187.

13 Harold J. Cook, The Decline of the Old Medical Regime in Stuart London (Ithaca,

NY: Cornell University Press, 1986), 19–49; Keith Thomas, Religion and the Decline of Magic: Studies in Popular Beliefs in Sixteenth and Seventeenth Century England (New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1971), 14; Andrew Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 1550–1680 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,

Notes to Pages 222–223  321

2000), 21–25, 49–50, and 82–83; and Leigh Whaley, Women and the Practice of Medical Care in Early Modern Europe, 1400–1800 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 150–51. 14 Nich[olas] Culpeper, A Physicall Directory, or, a translation of the London dis-

pensary made by the Colledge of Physicians in London (London: Peter Cole, 1649), sig. A2.

15 John Henry, “Doctors and Healers in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries,”

in Companion to the History of Modern Science, ed. R. C. Olby, G. N.Cantor, J. R. R. Christie, and M. S. Hodge (London: Routledge, 1990), 199; Michel Foucault, The Care of Self: The History of Sexuality, vol. 3, trans. Robert Hurley (New York: Random House, 1988), 99–100; Michael MacDonald, “Anthropological Perspectives on the History of Science and Medicine,” in Information Sources in the History of Science and Medicine, ed. Pietro Corsi and Paul Weindling (London: Butterworth Scientific, 1983), 74; Linda Pollock, With Faith and Physic: The Life of a Tudor Gentlewoman Lady Grace Mildmay 1552–1620 (London: Collins and Brown, 1993), 92–93; Paul Slack, “Mirrors of Health and Treasures of Poor Men: The Uses of Vernacular Medical Literature in Tudor England,” in Health, Medicine and Mortality in the Sixteenth Century, ed. Charles Webster (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1979), 272; Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 21–22; and Whaley, Women and the Practice of Medical Care, 174–95.

16 Lucinda McCray Beier, Sufferers and Healers: The Experience of Illness in

Seventeenth-­Century England (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1987), 8–50; Cook, Decline of the Old Medical Regime, 19–49; Penelope Gouk, “Sister Disciplines? Music and Medicine in Historical Perspective,” in Musical Healing in Cultural Contexts, ed. Penelope Gouk (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 171–96; Henry, “Doctors and Healers,” 191–221; Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 26–28; and Whaley, Women and the Practice of Medical Care, 91–149.

17 Dart, “Miss Mary Burwell’s Instruction Book,” 5; Henry, “Doctors and

Healers,”199; Pollock, With Faith and Physic, pp. 97–107; Jennifer K. Stine, “Opening Closets: the Discovery of Household Medicine in Early Modern England.” (PhD diss., Stanford University, 1996), 106–39; and Whaley, Women and the Practice of Medical Care, 152–73.

18 Before the Enlightenment, pathologies of music were more often considered

moral than physical;, James Kennaway, Bad Vibrations: The History of the Idea of Music as a Cause of Disease (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2012), 2–4. If university-­ educated physicians ever “dispensed” music in the middle ages and early modern era, they have completely covered their tracks; Horden, “Commentary on Part III, with a Note on Paracelsus,” in Music as Medicine: The History of Music Therapy since Antiquity, ed. Peregrine Horden (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000), 149.

19 P[hillips], E[dward]. The New World of English Words: or, A General Dictionary

(London: E. Tyler for Nath. Brooke, 1658), sig. Hhv. “Philosophy” is, in turn, defined as “the love and study of wisdom, knowledge of natural causes,” sig. Hh.

20 William Bullein, The Government of Health (London: Valentine Simms, 1595), 3. 21 Thomas Cogan, The Haven of Health (London: Henry Midleton, 1584), sig. q3.

See also Beier, Sufferers and Healers, 154–55; Paul H. Kocher, “The Idea of God in Elizabethan Medicine,” Journal of the History of Ideas 11 (1950): 3–29; Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 29–32; and “Religious Beliefs and Medicine in Early Modern England,” in The Task of Healing: Medicine, Religion and Gender in

322  Notes to Pages 223–225

England and the Netherlands 1450–1800, ed. Hilary Marland and Margaret Pelling (Rotterdam: Erasmus, 1996), 145–70. 22 Bullein, Government of Health, 3. 23 See Beier, Sufferers and Healers, 154–81; Henry, “Doctors and Healers,” 218; Lester

King, “The Transformation of Galenism,” in Medicine in Seventeenth-­Century England, ed. Allen G. Debus (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974), 7–8 and 21–22; Walter Pagel, Paracelsus: An Introduction to Philosophical Medicine in the Era of the Renaissance, 2nd ed. (Basel: S. Karger, 1982), 65 and 121; Pollock, With Faith and Physic, 95–96; Andrew Wear, “Galen in the Renaissance,” in Galen: Problems and Prospects, ed. Vivian Nutton (London: Wellcome Institute for the History of Medicine, 1981), 229 and 245–50; A.W. Sloan, English Medicine in the Seventeenth Century (Durham: Durham Academic Press, 1996), 51–52; Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 34 and 39–40; Charles Webster, The Great Instauration (New York: Holmes and Meier, 1976), 286–87; and Whaley, Women and the Practice of Medical Care, 174–76.

24 For succinct summaries of early modern music as medicine at this intersection

between astrology, natural magic, ethics, and theology, see Gouk, “Sister Disciplines? Music and Medicine in Historical Perspective,” in Gouk, Musical Healing in Cultural Contexts, 183–92; and Horden, “Commentary on Part III, with a Note on Paracelsus,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 147–50. The most ancient connection between music and medicine was probably made through magic and the capacity of the musician or musician-­shaman to control spirits; Martin West, “Music Therapy in Antiquity,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 51–54.

25 Boorde, The Breviarie of Health (London: Thomas East), 83. 26 Horden, “Commentary on Part I, with a Note on China,” 43–45, and “Commen-

tary on Part II, with a Note on the Early Middle Ages,” 103–4 in Horden, Music as Medicine; Peter Murray Jones, “Music Therapy in the Later Middle Ages: The Case of Hugo van der Goes,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 123–28; Christopher Page, “Music and Medicine in the Thirteenth Century,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 109–11; Amnon Shiloah, “Jewish and Muslim Traditions of Music Therapy,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 69–71 and 78–82; West, “Music Therapy in Antiquity,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 51–58.

27 Richard Mulcaster, Positions Wherein Those Primitive Circumstances Be Examined,

Which are Necessarie for the Training Up of Children (London: Thomas Vautrollier for Thomas Chare, 1581), 37.

28 Horden, “Musical Solutions: Past and Present in Music Therapy,” in Horden,

Music as Medicine, 8–15; Vladimir J. Konečni, “Social Interaction and Musical Preference,” in The Psychology of Music, 3rd ed., ed. Diana Deutsch, Academic Press Series in Cognition and Perception (Oxford: Academic Press, 2013), 503; Suvi Saarikallio, “Music and Health: Physical, Mental, and Emotional,” in Ashley and Timmers, Routledge Companion to Music Cognition, 77–82; Renee Timmers, “Emotion in Music Listening,” in Ashley and Timmers, Routledge Companion to Music Cognition, 494; and Helen M. Tyler, “The Music Therapy Profession in Modern Britain,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 375–76 and 390–92.

29 Thomas Elyot, The Castel of Helth, 2nd ed., corr. and enl. (London: Thomae Ber-

theleti, 1541), fol. 1r.

30 Cogan, Haven of Health (1584), sigs. qq3v–­qq4.

Notes to Pages 227–231  323 31 Saul Jarcho, “Galen’s Six Non-­Naturals: A Bibliographic Note and Translation,”

Bulletin of the History of Medicine 44 (1970): 372–77; Ian Johnston, Galen on Diseases and Symptoms (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006) 48–49; Ian Maclean, Logic, Signs and Nature in the Renaissance: The Case of Learned Medicine (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2002), 251–53; Peter H. Niebyl, “The Non-­Naturals,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 45 (1971): 486–92; and Nancy G. Siraisi, Medieval and Renaissance Medicine: An Introduction to Knowledge and Practice (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1990), 100–101.

32 Thomas Moffett [Muffett], Healths Improvement, corr. and enl. by Christopher

Bennet (London: Tho[mas] Newcomb for Samuel Thomson, 1655), 22.

33 Moffett, Healths Improvement, 272; and John Case, Apologia musices (Oxford:

Joseph Barnes, 1588), 75–76. See also Bullein, A [. . .] goodly Regimente against the Fever, 2nd ed. (London: John Kingston, 1564), fol. 30v.

34 John Jones, The Arte and Science of preserving Bodie and Soule in Healthe, Wisdome,

and Catholike Religion (London: Henrie Bynneman, 1579), 13–14; and The Praise of Musicke (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1586), 42.

35 Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy, What It Is, 2nd ed., rev. author (Oxford: John

Lichfield and James Short, for Henry Cripps, 1624), 237–38. See also Case, Apologia musices, 75, which explains how music procures sleep.

36 Butler, The Principles of Musik in Singing and Setting (London: Printed by John

Haviland, 1636), 123; Case, Apologia musices, 51–52; and Cogan, Haven of Health (1584), sig. A2r. See also Gretchen L. Finney, “Vocal Exercise in the Sixteenth Century Related to Theories of Physiology and Disease,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 42 (1968): 422–49.

37 Levinus Lemnius, The Touchstone of Complexions, trans. by Thomas Newton (Lon-

don: Thomas Marsh, 1581), fol. 53r–­v.

38 Jones, Arte and Science, 14; and Gretchen L. Finney, “Music, Mirth, and the

Galenic Tradition in England,” in Reason and the Imagination: Studies in the History of Ideas, 1600–1800, ed. J. A. Mazzeo (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1962), 144–45.

39 Butler, Principles of Musik, 122. 40 Praise of Musicke, 43–45. 41 Cogan, Haven of Health (1584), 21–22. 42 Cogan, 22. 43 William Byrd, Psalmes, sonets & songs of sadness and pietie (London: Thomas East

for W[illiam] Byrd, 1588), superius partbook, sig. A2; and Thomas Bateson, The Second Set of Madrigales (London: Thomas Snodham, 1618), quintus partbook, dedication.

44 Richard Al[l]ison, An Howres Recreation in Musicke (London: John Windet for

William Barley, 1606), title page, all five partbooks; and Thomas Morley, Canzonets. or Little Short Songe to Foure Voyces (London: Peter Short, 1597), dedication, all four partbooks.

45 Thomas A. Ravenscroft, A Briefe Discourse, of the True (but neglected) Use of

Charact’ring the Degrees (London: Printed by Edw[ard] Allde for Tho[mas]

324  Notes to Pages 231–236

Adams, 1614), sigs. A2v–­F3. See also Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy (1624), 224–31. 46 Aristotle, Politiques, or Discourses of Government, translated from Greek to French

by Loys Le Roy; English translation anonymous (London: Adam Islip, 1598), 393.

47 Roger Ascham, Toxophilus: the schole of shootinge (London: Edward Whytchurch,

1545), fols. 9r–­10r; British Library Additional Ms. 31922, fols. 14v–­15, http://​www​ .bl​.uk​/onlinegallery​/onlineex​/henryviii​/musspowor​/pastime​/index​.html; and British Library MS Add. 5665, http://​www​.diamm​.ac​.uk​/sources​/796​/​#/. Transcriptions of two versions of the song are available in modern notation in John Stevens, ed., Music at the Court of Henry VIII, Musica Britannica 18, 2nd ed. (London: Stainer and Bell, 1969), 10–11. See also David Fallows, “Henry VIII as a Composer,” in Sundry Sorts of Music Books: Essays on the British Library Collections, ed. Chris Banks, Arthur Searle, and Malcolm Turner (London: British Library, 1993), 27–39; Raymond C. Siemans, “Henry VIII as Writer and Lyricist,” Musical Quarterly 92 (2009): 139–41; and John M. Ward, “The Lute Music of MS Royal Appendix 58,” Journal of the American Musicological Society 13 (1960): 123–24.

48 Baldassarre Castiglione, conte, The Courtyer of Count Balthesar Castilio, trans.

Thomas Hoby (London: Wyllyam Seres, 1561), sigs. Jii–­Jiii.

49 Henry Peacham [the Younger], The Compleat Gentleman, 2nd ed. (London: Francis

Constable, 1634), 98.

50 Mulcaster, Positions, 38. 51 Byrd, Psalmes, sonets & songs, sig. Av. 52 Andreas Ornithoparcus, Micrologus, or Introduction: Containing the Art of Singing,

trans. John Dowland (London: Thomas Adams, 1609), sig. bv.

53 Joanna Moody, ed., The Private Life of an Elizabethan Lady: The Diary of Lady

Margaret Hoby 1599–1605 (Stroud, Gloucestershire: Sutton, 1998), 106.

54 Grace Mildmay, “Autobiography” in Pollock, With Faith and Physic, 34–35. 55 Mulcaster, Positions, 37. 56 Mulcaster, 38. 57 Oxford English Dictionary, s. v. “affect, n.,” “affection, n.1,” “passion, n.,” accessed

March 30, 2018, http://​www​.oed​.com; Susan James, Passion and Action: The Emotions in Seventeenth-­Century Philosophy (Oxford: Clarendon, 1997), 4–5 and 16–17; Johnston, Galen on Diseases and Symptoms, 24–25 and 182–83; Paster, Humoring the Body: Emotions and the Shakespearean Stage (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 9–13; and Siraisi, Medieval and Renaissance Medicine, 101.

58 John Jones, Arte and Science, 12; and Wright, Passions of the Minde, 159–70. 59 Wright, Passions of the Minde, 7–8; see also Daniel Tuvil, Essaies Politicke, and

Morall (London: H. L. for Mathew Lownes, 1608), fols. 15v–­16v.

60 Wright, Passions of the Minde, 4. 61 Levinus Lemnius, The Secret Miracles of Nature (London: Jo. Streater for

Humphrey Moseley, 1658), 36. See also, for instance, John Davies, Microcosmos (Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1603), 60–61.

Notes to Pages 236 –241  325 62 René Descartes, The Passions of the Soule, anon. trans. (London: A.C. for J. Martin

and J. Ridley, 1650), 1–2.

63 Tobias Hume, Poeticall Musicke (London: John Windet, 1607), sigs. Mv–­M2. 64 L[eonard] Wright, A Display of Dutie: Dect With Sage Sayings, Pythie Sentences,

and Proper Similies (London: John Wolfe, 1589), 35.

65 Lincoln John Colling and William Forde Thompson, “Music, Action and Affect,”

in Cochrane, Fantini, and Scherer, Emotional Power of Music, 204; Roni Granot, “Music, Pleasure, and Social Affiliation: Hormones and Neurotransmitters,” in Ashley and Timmers, Routledge Companion to Music Cognition, 102–7; G. Harrer and H. Harrer, “Music, Emotion and Autonomic Function,” in Music and the Brain: Studies in the Neurology of Music, ed. MacDonald Critchley and R. A. Henson (London: William Heinemann, 1977), 202; Klaus R. Scherer and Eduardo Coutinho, “How Music Creates Emotion,” in Cochrane, Fantini, and Scherer, Emotional Power of Music, 122–29; and Renee Timmers, “Emotion in Music Listening,” in Ashley and Timmers, Routledge Companion to Music Cognition, 497.

66 Noga Arikha, Passons and Tempers: A History of the Humours (New York: Harper-

Collins, 2007), xvii–­xviii and 3–6; Laurinda S. Dixon, The Dark Side of Genius: The Melancholic Persona in Art, ca. 1500–1700 (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2103), 11–12; Angus Gowland, The Worlds of Renaissance Melancholy: Robert Burton in Context (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 43–49; Johnson, Galen on Diseases and Symptoms, 5; Jennifer Radden, preface to The Nature of Melancholy from Aristotle to Kristeva (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2000), ix; Rudolph E. Siegel, Galen’s System of Physiology and Medicine (Basel: S. Karger, 1968), 216–24; A. W. Sloan, English Medicine in the Seventeenth Century (Durham: Durham Academic Press), 35–36; Paster, Humoring the Body, 12–21; W[alkington], T[homas], The Optick Glasse of Humors ([London]: J. D. for L. B., 1639), 77; and Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 37–40.

67 Lemnius, Touchstone of Complexions, fol. 32r. 68 Guillaume de Salluste seigneur Du Bartas, Du Bartas His Divine Weekes and

Workes, trans. Josuah Sylvester (London: Printed by Humfray Lownes, 1621), 377–78.

69 Arikha, Passons and Tempers, 9–14; Henry, “Doctors and Healers,” 199–201;

Brian K. Nance, “Determining the Patient’s Temperature: An Excursion into Seventeenth-­Century Medical Semiology,” Bulletin of the History of Medicine 67 (1993): 422–36; Paster, Humoring the Body, 13–17; Pollock, With Faith and Physic, 94–95; Winfried Schleiner, Melancholy, Genius, and Utopia in the Renaissance (Weisbaden: Otto Harrassowitz, 1991), 32–35; and Wear, Knowledge and Practice in English Medicine, 37–40.

70 Lemnius, Secret Miracles of Nature, 60–61. 71 Arikha, Passons and Tempers, 11; Anicius Manlius [Torquantus] Severinus Boe-

thius, Fundamentals of Music, trans. Calvin Bower and ed. Claude Palisca (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989), 2–3; Praise of Musicke, 55; Robert Allott, Wits Theater of the Little World (London: J. R. for N. L, 1599), fols. 97–100; and Francis Meres, Wits Common Wealth, the second part (London: William Stansby for Richard Royston, 1634), 637.

72 Butler, Principles of Musik, 96.

326  Notes to Pages 241–247 73 See Schleiner, Melancholy, Genius, and Utopia, 33. 74 Walkington, Optick Glasse of Humors, 116–17; see also Burton, Anatomy of Melan-

choly (1624), 191.

75 Katherine Butler, Music in Elizabethan Court Politics, Studies in Medieval and

Renaissance Music 14 (Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell and Brewer, 2015), 19–33 and 55–75; and Roy Strong, The Cult of Elizabeth: Elizabethan Portraiture and Pageantry (London: Thames and Hudson, 1977), 47–50.

76 Edward Topsell, The Historie of Foure-­Footed Beastes (London: William Jaggard,

1607), 231.

77 Austern, “‘Alluring the Auditorie to Effeminacie’: Music and the Idea of the Femi-

nine in Early Modern England,” Music and Letters 74 (1993): 351–53; and “‘For Musicke is the Handmaid of the Lord’: Women, Psalms and Domestic Music-­ Making in Early Modern England,” in Psalms in the Early Modern World, ed. Linda Austern, Kari Boyd McBride, and David L. Orvis (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2011), 80–83.

78 Lemnius, Secret Miracles of Nature, 59. 79 Ravenscroft, Briefe Discourse, sig. A3r. 80 Shakespeare, Othello, in Comedies, Histories and Tragedies (London: Printed by

Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), act 2, scene 3, lines 64–95; and Ross Duffin, Shakespeare’s Songbook (New York: W. W. Norton, 2004), 50–51.

81 Susan Rachel Agrawal, “‘Tune thy Temper to these Sounds’: Music and Medicine

in the English Ayre” (PhD diss., Northwestern University, 2005), 545–98.

82 George Lakoff and Mark Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh: The Embodied Mind and

Its Challenge to Western Thought (New York: Basic Books, 1999), 50.

83 For a summary of how choleric and phlegmatic humoral music are exemplified

within the English ayre genre, see Agrawal, “‘Tune thy Temper to these Sounds,’” 693–700.

84 J[ohn] B[ullokar], An English Expositor: Teaching the Interpretation of the Hardest

Words used in our Language (London: John Leggatt, 1616), sig. K5v; Arikha, Passions and Tempers, 10–11 and 115–24; Dixon, Dark Side of Genius, 17–25; Mary Ann Lund, Melancholy, Medicine and Religion in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 9–10; Paster, Humoring the Body, 5; and Radden, “Introduction: From Melancholic States to Clinical Depression,” in Radden, Nature of Melancholy, 5–12.

85 Walkington, Optick Glasse of Humors, fol. 67r–­v. 86 Bullein, Government of Health, fol. 85v. 87 André Du Laurens [Andreas Laurentius], A Discourse of the Preservation of the

Sight: of Melancholike Diseases; of Rheumes, and of Old age, trans. Richard Surphlet (London: Felix Kingston for Ralph Jacson, 1599), 107.

88 T[imothy] Bright, A Treatise of Melancholy (London: Thomas Vautrollier, 1586),

247–48.

89 Bartholomeus Anglicus, Batman Upon Bartholome, His Book De Proprietatibus

Rerum, ed. and trans. Stephen Batman (London: Thomas East, 1582), 179–80;

Notes to Pages 247–251  327

Thomas Nashe, Christes Teares over Jerusalem (London: [George Eld] for Thomas Thorp, 1613), 51; and Paster, Humoring the Body, 142–45. 90 Henry Peacham [the Younger], Minerva Britanna, or A Garden of Heroical Devises

(London: Wa: Dight [1612]), 126.

91 Ferrand, Jacques [ James], Erotomania, [trans. E. Chilmead] (Oxford: L. Lichfield

for Edward Forrest, 1640), 23.

92 Christoph Wirsung [Christopher Wirtsung], Praxis Medicinae Universalis; or a

Generall Practise of Physicke, trans. Jacob Mosan (London: Edward Bollifant, 1598), 130.

93 Arikha, Passions and Tempers, 115–24 and 155–66; Dixon, Dark Side of Genius, 13–19

and 25–30; Anthony Esler, The Aspiring Mind of the Elizabethan Younger Generation (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 1966), 230–31; Gowland, Worlds of Renaissance Melancholy, 54–83; Lemnius, Secret Miracles of Nature, 62–64; Bridget Gellert Lyons, Voices of Melancholy (London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1971), 1–5; Radden, “Introduction: From Melancholic States to Clinical Depression,” 10–17; and Stephanie Shirilan, Robert Burton and the Transformative Powers of Melancholy (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2015), 78–88.

94 A Physical Dictionary (London: G. D. for John Garfield, 1657), sig. I5r. See also

Lyons, Voices of Melancholy, 3; and Schleiner, Melancholy, Genius, and Utopia, 31–32.

95 Arikha, Passions and Tempers, 124–26; Dixon, Dark Side of Genius, 20–25 Eugenio

Garin, “The Philosopher and the Magus,” trans. Lydia G. Cochrane (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 124–25; Gowland, Worlds of Renaissance Melancholy, 52–53 and 90–91; Jean Starobinski, L’encre de la mélancholie (N.P.: Éditions du Seuil, 2012), 62; and Wolf Lepenies, Melancholy and Society, trans. Jeremy Gaines and Doris Jones (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1992), 13–14.

96 Dixon, Dark Side of Genius, 13–19 and 25–30; Gowland, Worlds of Renaissance

Melancholy 54–83; Clark Lawlor, “Fashionable Melancholy,” in Melancholy Experience in Literature of the Long Eighteenth Century: Before Depression, 1660–1800, ed. Allan Ingram et al. (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011), 25–27; Lemnius, Secret Miracles of Nature, p. 63; Radden, “Introduction: From Melancholic States to Clinical Depression,” 10–17; and Starobinski, L’encre de la mélancholie, 62–63.

97 John Wilkins, An Essay Towards a Real Character (London: Sa[muel] Gellibrand

for John Martyn, 1668), 293.

98 Castiglione, Courtyer, sig. J3; and Peacham, Compleat Gentleman, 97–98. 99 Cogan, Haven of Health (1584), 20–21. 100 Bright, Treatise of Melancholy, 347–48; and Praise of Musicke, 61. See also 41–42,

which makes the same claim as Bright but cites different authorities.

101 Ling, Politeuphuia (1598), fols. 195v–­197. 102 Lancelot de Carles, Épistre contenant le procès criminal faict a lencontre de la royne

Anne Boullant d’Angleterre (Lyon: n.p., 1545), 5, http://​gallica​.bnf​.fr​/ark:​/12148​ /bpt6k71312g​?rk​=​21459; Sir James Melvill[e], The Memoires (London: E. H. for Robert Boulter, 1683), 50; and Sir Philip Sidney, “Letter to His Brother Robert, 18 October 1580,” in An English Garner, vol. 12, Critical Essays and Literary Fragments

328  Notes to Pages 253–257

(New York: Cooper Square, 1964), 8. Carle’s original reads “Elle sçavoit bein . . . / Sonner de lucz, & daultres instrumens / Pour diverter les tristes pensements.” 103 An Antidote Against Melancholy (London: John Playford, 1669); and Wit and

Mirth: or, Pills to Purge Melancholy (London: Will[iam] Pearson for Henry Playford, 1699), title page.

104 Barten Holyday, Technogamia: or the Marriages of the Arts (London: William

Stansby for John Parker, 1618).

105 Thomas Nabbes, Microcosmus, a Moral Maske (London: Richard Oulton for

Charles Greene, 1637), sig. B; and Burton, Anatomy of Melancholy, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Henry Cripps, 1628), frontispiece.

106 Agrawal, “‘Tune thy Temper to these Sounds,’” 604–43; Daniel T. Fischlin, In

Small Proportions: A Poetics of the English Ayre, 1596–1622 (Detroit: Wayne State University Press, 1998), 101–3, 145–47, and 264–65; Kirsten Gibson, “‘How Hard an Enterprise It Is’: Authorial Self-­Fashioning in John Dowland’s Printed Books,” Early Music History 26 (2007): 84–86; Peter Holman, Dowland Lachrimae (1604), (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999), 50–52; David Pinto, “Dowland’s Tears,” Journal of the Lute Society of America 37 (1997): 61–63; Diana Poulton, John Dowland, rev. ed. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1982), 76–79; Anthony Rooley, “New Light on John Dowland’s Songs of Darkness,” Early Music 11 (1983): 12; Robin Headlam Wells, Elizabethan Mythologies: Studies in Poetry, Drama and Music (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 191–98 and 203–7; and “John Dowland and Elizabethan Melancholy,” Early Music 13 (1985): 523.

107 William Barley, A New Booke of Tabliture (London: William Barley, 1596), sig. A2v;

and Edward Lake, “To the Author upon his Ayres,” in John Hilton, Ayres or Fa La’s for Three Voyces (London: Humfrey Lownes, 1627), cantus partbook, n.p.

108 Thomas Ravenscroft, The Whole Booke of Psalmes, newly corrected and enlarged

(London: Company of Stationers, 1621), preface.

109 Boorde, Breviary of Health, fol. 58v. 110 Wright, Passions of the Minde, 160. 111 Gowland, Worlds of Renaissance Melancholy, 19–28; Mary Ann Lund, Melancholy,

Medicine and Religion, 1–9; and Shirilan, Robert Burton, 10–15 and 114.

112 Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy (1632), 294. 113 Burton, 295. 114 Burton, 294–97. 115 Burton, 294–97; and Robert Burton, The Anatomy of Melancholy, ed. Nicholas K.

Kiessling, Thomas C. Faulkner, and Rhonda L. Blair (Oxford: Clarendon, 1990), 2:112–16. See also Austern, “Musical Treatments of Lovesickness: the Early Modern Heritage,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 226–28; J. B. Bamborough and Martin Dodson, Robert Burton: The Anatomy of Melancholy, vol. 5, Commentary from Part. 1, Sect. 2, Memb. 4, Subs. 1 to the End of the Second Partition (Oxford: Clarendon, 2000), 197–200; and Penelope Gouk, “Music, Melancholy, and Medical Spirits in Early Modern Thought,” in Horden, Music as Medicine, 174–75 and 182–84.

116 Michael P. Steinberg, “Music and Melancholy,” Critical Inquiry 40 (2014): 288–89;

Timmers, “Emotion in Music Listening,” in Ashley and Timmers, Routledge Com-

Notes to Pages 257–264  329

panion to Music Cognition, 494–95; and W. H. Trethowan, “Music and Mental Disorder,” in Music and the Brain, ed. MacDonald Critchley and R. A. Henson (London: William Heinemann Medical Books, 1978), 429. 117 Antony Holborne, Pavans, Galliards, Almains, and other short Æirs (London:

William Barley, 1599), no. 27; and John Bull, Keyboard Music II, Musica Britannica 19, transcribed and edited by Thurston Dart, 3rd ed. rev. Alan Brown (London: Stainer and Bell, 2016), 13–17.

118 Sir John Davies, Orchestra or a Poem of Dancing (London: Printed by J. Robarts for

N. Ling, 1596), sig. I9.

119 Davies, sig. I9; and Bright, Treatise of Melancholie, 247. 120 Gioseffo Zarlino, Le Istitutione Harmoniche: Venezia, 1561, introductory essays

by Iain Fenlon and Paolo Da Col (N.p.: Arnaldo Forni, 2008), 288; and Thomas Morley, A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke (London: Peter Short, 1597), 177.

121 Bull, Keyboard Music II, 13–17. 122 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 181. 123 Morley, 181; and Davies, Orchestra, sig. I9. 124 Butler, Principles of Musik, 96. See also Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction,

177–78.

125 Pollock, With Faith and Physic, 121. 126 Lakoff and Johnson, Philosophy in the Flesh, 50. 127 Wirsung, Praxis Medicinae, 130–31. 128 Hume, First Part of Ayres, sig. O; and Poulton, John Dowland, 145. The Dowland

piece is found in Cambridge Ms Dd.2.11, f. 12.

129 Shakespeare, As You Like It, act 2, scene 5, lines 9–10, Comedies, Histories, and

Tragedies (London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623), 192; Agrawal, “‘Tune thy Temper to these Sounds,’” 825–80; and Fischlin, In Small Proportions, 71–78.

130 John Dowland, Second Booke of Songs or Ayres (London: Thomas Este for Thomas

Morley, 1600), sig. A2.

131 Juliana Schiesari, The Gendering of Melancholia: Feminism, Psychoanalysis, and the

Symbolics of Loss in Renaissance Literature (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1992), 96–101 and 162–66; and Scott A. Trudell, “Performing Women in English Books of Ayres,” in Gender and Song in Early Modern England, ed. Leslie C. Dunn and Katherine R. Larson (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2014), 20–25.

132 British Library MS Egerton 2046, fols. 17, 31v, and 34; Brian Jeffrey, “Antony Hol-

borne,” Musica Discilina 22 (1968): 162, 165, 167–68, and 188; “The Lute Music of Antony Holborne,” Proceedings of the Royal Musical Association 93 (1966–67): 26–27; Thomas Forrest Kelly, “Notes on the Jane Pickering Lute Book,” Journal of the Lute Society of America 1 (1968): 19–22; and Matthew Spring, The Lute in Britain: A History of the Instrument and Its Music (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001), 226–28.

330  Notes to Pages 264–267 133 Bright, Treatise of Melancholy, 247–48; Wright, Passions of the Minde, 160; and

Oxford English Dictionary, s.v. “dump, n.1,” accessed April 19, 2018, http://​www​ .oed​.com.

134 Wright, Passions of the Minde, 117 (i.e., 171). 135 Bacon, Sylva Sylvarum, 38. 136 Praise of Musicke, 58. 137 Timmers, “Emotion in Music Listening,” in Ashley and Timmers, Routledge Com-

panion to Music Cognition, 494.

138 Descartes, Compendium of Musick, 6. 139 Morley, Plaine and Easie Introduction, 181–82. 140 Ravenscroft, Briefe Discourse, sigs. qqv, A2, and A2v. 141 Ravenscroft, sig. A2.

Selected Bibliography

All works essential to my research and writing, and to further reading on the topics presented in this book, are included below. This bibliography is by no means a complete record of all the works and sources I have consulted.

Before 1700 Manuscripts British Library. Add. MS 5665. University of Oxford, Digital Image Archive of Medieval Music. http://​www​.diamm​.ac​.uk​/sources​/796​/​#/. British Library. Add. MS 10302, Thomas Norton, The Ordinall of Alchymy, written, in verse. British Library. Add. MS 19758, Thomas Ravenscroft, A Treatise of Musick. British Library. Add. MS 31922. Online Gallery. http://​www​.bl​.uk​/onlinegallery​ /onlineex​/henryviii​/musspowor​/pastime​/index​.html. British Library. MS Egerton 2046. Jane Pickeringe’s Lute Book. British Library Harl. 5936[385]. “By Heavens Decree the Sound of Musick by David’s Hand.” Folger Shakespeare Library. MS V.a.311. Thomas Fella, A Book of Diverse Devices and Sorts of Pictures with the Alphabets of Letters, 1585–1598, 1622. Folger Shakespeare Library. MS V.a.381. Commonplace Book, ca. 1600–1652. Folger Shakespeare Library. MS V.b.232, Thomas Trevelyon, Pictorial Commonplace Book, 1608.

331

332  Selected Bibliography

Oxford Bodleian Library. MS Rawl. Poet. 148, John Lilliat, A Gratification unto Master John Case, for his learned booke, lately made in the praise of Musicke. Yale University. Mellon Alchemical MS 46, Thomas Norton, The Ordinal of Alchemy in English Verse.

Printed Materials Adams, Thomas. Diseases of the Soule. London: George Purslowe for John Budge, 1616. An Admonition to the Parliament. London: n.p. [1572]. Agrippa von Nettesheim, Henry Cornelius. Of the Vanitie and Uncertaintie of Artes and Sciences. Translated by Ja[mes] San[ford]. London: Henry Wykes, 1569. Agrippa von Nettesheim, Henry Cornelius. Three Books of Occult Philosophy. Translated by J. F. London: R. W. for Gregory Moule, 1651. Agrippa von Nettesheim, Henry Cornelius [pseud.]. Fourth Book of Occult Philosophy. Translated by Robert Turner. London: J. C. for the Rooks, 1665. Al[l]ison, Richard. An Howres Recreation in Musicke. London: John Windet for William Barley, 1606. [Allott, Robert]. Englands Parnassus. London: N. Ling, C. Burby, and T. Hayes, 1600. Allott, Robert. Wits Theater of the Little World. London: J. R. for N. L., 1599. Alsted, John Henry [ Johannes Henricus Alstedius]. Templum Musicum: or The Musical Synopsis. Translated by John Birchensha. London: William Godbid for Peter Dring, 1663 [1664]. An Antidote Against Melancholy. London: John Playford, 1669. Aristotle. Politiques, or Discourses of Government. Translated from Greek to French by Loys Le Roy; English translation anonymous. London: Adam Islip, 1598. The Art of English Poesie. London: Richard Field, 1589. Ascham, Roger. The Scholemaster. London: John Daye, 1570. Ascham, Roger. Toxophilus: the schole of shootinge. London: Edward Whytchurch, 1545. [Augustine, St.] The Confessions. Translated by Sir Tobie Matthew. [St. Omer]: [English College Press], 1620. Augustine, St. Confessions. Translated by William Watts. London: John Norton for John Partridge, 1631. Bacon, Francis. History Naturall And Experimentall Of Life and Death. London: John Haviland for William Lee and Humphrey Mosley, 1638. Bacon, Francis. Of the Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, Divine and

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Humane. London: Thomas Purfoot and Thomas Creede for Henrie Tomes, 1605. Bacon, Francis. Sylva Sylvarum or a Naturall History. London: W. Lee, 1629. Baldwin, William. A Marvelous Hystory intitulede, Beware the Cat. London: Wylliam Gryffith, 1570. Baldwin, William. A Treatise of Morall Phylosophy. [London]: n.p., [1575]. Baldwin, William, ed. A Treatise of Morall Phylosophye. London: Edwarde Whitchurche, [1552?]. Barley, William. A New Booke of Tabliture. London: William Barley, 1596. Barley, William. The Pathway to Musicke. London: William Barley, 1596. Bartholomeus Anglicus. Batman Upon Bartholome, His Book De Proprietatibus Rerum. Edited and translated by Stephen Batman. London: Thomas East, 1582. B[asse], W[illiam], and E. P. A Helpe to Discourse. London: Printed by N. O. for Leonard Becke, 1620. Bateson, Thomas. The First Set of English Madrigales. London: Thomas East, 1604. Bateson, Thomas. The Second Set of Madrigales. London: Thomas Snodham, 1618. Batman, Stephen. The Golden Booke of the Leaden Goddes. London: Thomas Marshe, 1577. Baxter, Richard. The Saints Everlasting Rest. London: Rob[ert] White for Thomas Underhill and Francis Tyton, 1650. Becon, Thomas. The Relikes of Rome. London: John Day, 1563. The Bible and Holy Scriptures Conteyned in the Olde and Newe Testamant. Geneva: Rouland Hall, 1560. The Bible in Englyshe. Rouen: Richard Carmarden, 1566. The Bible, That is The holy Scriptures conteined in the Olde and Newe Testament. Pt. 2, Ecclesiastes, or The Preacher. Rev. ed. London: Christopher Barker, 1599. First published 1576. Bishops of London. Certaine Articles, Collected. [London]: n.p., [1572]. B[lount], T[homas]. Glossographia: or a Dictionary. London: Tho[mas] Newcomb for Humphrey Moseley, 1656. Blundeville, [Thomas]. The Art of Logike. London: John Windet, 1599. Blundeville, Thomas. The Theoretiques of the Seven Planets. London: Adam Islip, 1602. Blundevill[e], Thomas. The True Order and Methode of Wryting and Reading Hystories. London: Willyam Seres, [1574]. Boet[h]ius, [Anicius Manlius Torquantus Severinus]. De consolationae philosophiae. The boke of Boecius, called the Comfort of Philosophy. Translated by George Colville. London: [ J. Cawoode], 1556.

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The Booke of the Common Prayer and Administracion of the Sacramentes. London: Edouardi Whitechurche, 1549. Boorde, Andrew. The Breviarie of Health. London: Thomas East, 1587. [Brady, Nicholas, and Henry Purcell]. [’Tis Natures Voice:] A Song Set by Mr. Henry Purcell. [London]: [Thomas Cross], [1693]. Brathwaite, Richard. The English Gentleman. London: John Haviland, 1630. Brathwaite, Richard. Essaies Upon the Five Senses. London: Printed by E. G. for Richard Whittaker, 1620. Brathwait[e], Richard. Essays on the Five Senses. London: n.p., 1625. Bright, T[imothy]. A Treatise of Melancholie. London: Thomas Vautrollier, 1586. Brinsley, John. Ludus literarius: or The Grammar Schoole. London: Thomas Man, 1612. Browne, Sir Thomas. Religio Medici. [London]: Printed for Andrew Crooke, 1642. Brunschwig, Hieronymus. The noble experyence of the vertuous handy warke of surgery. Anon, trans. London: Peter Treveris, 1625. Bullein, William. The Government of Health. London: Printed by Valentine Sims, 1595. B[ullokar], J[ohn]. An English Expositor: Teaching the Interpretation of the Hardest Words used in our Language. London: John Leggatt, 1616. Buoni, T[ommaso]. Problems of Beawtie and All Humane Affections. Translated by S. L. London: G. Eld for Edward Blount and William Aspley, 1606. Burton, Robert [Democritus Junior]. The Anatomy of Melancholy, What It Is. Oxford: Printed by John Lichfield and James Short for Henry Cripps, 1621. Burton, Robert. The Anatomy of Melancholy, What It Is. 2nd ed., rev. author. Oxford: John Lichfield and James Short, for Henry Cripps, 1624. Burton, Robert. Anatomy of Melancholy. 3rd ed. Oxford: Henry Cripps, 1628. Burton, Robert. The Anatomy of Melancholy. 4th ed., corr. and enl. Oxford: Henry Cripps, 1632. Butler, Charles. The Principles of Musik, in Singing and Setting. London: Printed by John Haviland, 1636. Byrd, William. Psalmes, sonets, & songs of sadnes and pietie. London: Thomas Este for W[illiam] Byrd, 1588. Byrd, William. Songs of Sundrie Natures. London: Thomas East for William Byrd, 1589. Byrd, William, John Bull, and Orlando Gibbons. Parthenia: or, the Maydenhead. London: Mris. Dor[ethie] Evans, [1613?]. Byrd, William, and T[homas] Watson. A Gratification unto Master John Case, for his learned booke, lately made in the praise of Musicke. London: Thomas East, the assigne of W[illiam] Byrd, 1589.

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Campian [Campion], Thomas. The Third and Fourth Booke of Ayres. London: Thomas Snodham, 1617. Campian [Campion], Thomas. Two Bookes of Ayres: The First Contayning Divine and Morall Songs, The Second Light Conceits of Lovers. London: Thomas Snodham, 1613. Campion, Thomas. A New Way of Making Fowre Parts in Counterpoint. London: Printed by T. S. for John Browne, [1610]. Carles, Lancelot de. Épistre contenant le procès criminal faict a lencontre de la royne Anne Boullant d’Angleterre. Lyon: n.p., 1545. http://​gallica​.bnf​.fr​/ark:​/12148​ /bpt6k71312g​?rk​=​21459. Cartari, Vincenzo. The Fountaine of Ancient Fiction. Translated by Richard Linche. London: Adam Islip, 1599. C[artwright], T[homas]. A Replye to an Answere made of M. Doctor Whitgifte Against the Admonition to the Parliament. [London]: [Hemel Hempstead or J. Stroud?], [1573]. Casaubon, Meric. A Treatise Concerning Enthusiasme. Rev. ed. London: Roger Daniel, 1656. First published 1655. Case, John. Apologia musices. Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1588. Case, John [ Johanne Caso Oxoniensi]. Sphaera civitatis. Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1588. Castiglione, Baldassarre, conte. The Courtyer of Count Balthesar Castilio. Translated by Thomas Hoby. London: Wyllyam Seres, 1561. Castiglione, Baldassarre, conte. Il libro del cortegiano. [Florence]: [Philippo di Giunta], [1531]. Cats, J[acob]. Proteus ofte Minne-­Beelden. Rotterdam: Pieter van Waesberge, 1627. Cats, Jacob. Sinne- en minnebelden[:] Emblemata Amores Moresque spetantia. Amsterdam: n.p., 1618. Cawdray, Robert. A Table Alphabeticall conteyning and teaching the true writing, and understanding of hard usuall English words. London: J. Roberts for Edmund Weaver, 1604. Cawdray, Robert. A Treasurie or Store-­House of Similes. London: Tho[mas] Creede, 1600. Cawdray, Robert. A Treasurie or Store-­House of Similes. London: Thomas Creede, 1609. Chamber, John. A Treatise against Judicial Astrologie. London: John Harison, 1601. Chapman, George. Ovids Banquet of Sence. London: J. R. for Richard Smith, 1595. Chappell, William. The Preacher. London: Edw[ard] Farnham, 1656. Charro[n], Pierre. Of Wisedome. Translated by Samson Lennard. London: Edward Blount and Will. Aspley, [1608?].

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Cicero. Three Bookes of Duties [De oficiis]. Translated by Nicholas Gilmald. London: Thomas Este, 1596. Clapham, Henoch. Doctor Andros His Prosopoeia Answered. Middelburg: Richard Schilders, 1605. Cockeram, Henry. The English Dictionarie: or, An Interpreter of Hard English Words. London: Edmund Weaver, 1623. Cockeram, Henry. The English Dictionary, or, An Interpreter of Hard English Words. 10th ed. London: A. M. for Andrew Crooke, 1655. Coeffeteau, F. N. A Table of Humane Passions. Trans. Edw[ard] Grimeston. London: Printed for Nicholas Okes, 1621. Cogan, Thomas. The Haven of Health. London: Henry Midleton, 1584. Cogan, Thomas. The Haven of Health. London: Melch. Bradwood for John Norton, 1612. Coke, Zachary. The Art of Logick. London: Robert White for George Calvert, 1654. Coles, Elisha. An English Dictionary. London: Peter Parker, 1677. [Coryate, Thomas.] Coryats Crudities. London: W[illiam] S[tansby], 1611. Cotta, John. The Triall of Witch-­Craft. London: George Purslowe for Samuel Rand, 1616. Crooke, Helkiah. Mikrocosmographia: A Description of the Body of Man. London: [W. Jaggard], 1615. Culpeper, Nich[olas]. A Physicall Directory, or, a translation of the London dispensary made by the Colledge of Physicians in London. London: Peter Cole, 1649. Cunny-­catcher, Cuthbert. The Defence of Conny-­Catching. London, 1592. Daman, William [Gulielmo Daman]. The Psalmes of David in English Meter. London: John Day, [1579]. Davies, John, of Hereford. Microcosmos. Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1603. Davies, Sir John. Nosce Teipsum. London: Richard Field for John Standish, 1599. Davies, Sir John. Orchestra or a Poem of Dancing. London: Printed by J. Robarts for N. Ling, 1596. Dee, John. Preface to [Euclid,] The Elements of Geometrie. Translated by H[enry] Billingsley. London: John Daye, 1570. Desainliens, Claude [Claudius Hollyband]. The French Schoolemaister. London: William How[e] for Abraham Veale, 1573. Descartes, René [Renatus Des-­Cartes]. Compendium of Musick. Anon. trans. London: Thomas Harper for Humphrey Moseley, 1653. Descartes, René. The Passions of the Soule. Anon. trans. London: A. C. for J. Martin and J. Ridley, 1650.

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Digby, Kenelm. A Late Discourse. Translated by R. White. London: R. Lownes for T. Davies, 1658. Digby, Kenelm. Two Treatises. Paris: Gilles Blaizot, 1644. Donne, John. Devotions upon Emergent Occasions. 2nd ed. London: A. M. for Thomas Jones, 1624. Donne, John. LXXX Sermons. London: Richard Royston and Richard Marriot, 1640. Donne, John. A Sermon, Preached to the Kings Mtie at Whitehall, 24 February 1625 [1626]. London: Thomas Jones, 1626. Dowland, John. First Booke of Songs or Ayres. London: Peter Short, 1597. Dowland, John. A Pilgrimes Solace. London: William Barley, 1612. Dowland, John. Second Booke of Songs or Ayres. London: Thomas Este for Thomas Morley, 1600. Du Bartas, Guillaume de Salluste, seigneur. Dubartas His Divine Weekes and Workes. Translated by Josuah Sylvester. London: Printed by Humphray Lownes, 1621. Du Jon, François [Franciscus Junius]. The Painting of the Ancients. [London]: Richard Hodgkinsonne for Daniel Frere, 1638. Du Laurens, André [Andreas Laurentius]. A Discourse of the Preservation of the Sight: of Melancholike Diseases; of Rheumes, and of Old age. Translated by Richard Surphlet. London: Felix Kingston for Ralph Jacson, 1599. Edwards, Richard. The Paradyse of daynty devises. London: Henry Disle, 1576. Elyot, Thomas. The Castel of Helth. 2nd ed., corr. and enl. London: Thomae Bertheleti, 1541. Elyot, Thomas. The Dictionary. London: Thomae Bertheleti, [1538]. Farmer, John. The First Set of English Madrigals. London: William Barley for Thomas Morley, 1599. Feltham, Owen. Resolves. 5th ed. London: Henry Seile, 1634. Ferrand, Jacques [ James]. Erotomania. [Translated by E. Chilmead.] Oxford: L. Lichfield for Edward Forrest, 1640. Fifteen Real Comforts of Matrimony. London: Benjamin Alsop and Thomas Malthus, 1683. Florio, John. Firste Fruits which yeelde familiar speech, merie Proverbes, wittie Sentences, and golden sayings. [London]: Thomas Dawson for Thomas Woodcocke, 1578. Fludd, Robert. Tomus secundus de supernaturali, naturali, praeternaturali et conotranaturali. Openhemii: Johannes Theodor de Bry, 1621. Fludd, Robert. Utriusque Cosmi majoris scilicet et minoris metaphysica, physica atque technica historia. Oppenhemii: Johann-­Theodori de Bry, 1617.

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Ford, Thomas. Musicke of Sundrie Kindes. London: John Windet, 1607. The Forme of Prayers and Ministration of the Sacraments, &c. Used in the Englishe Congregation at Geneva. Geneva: John Crespin, 1556. Fox, John [ Joan. Foxum]. Pandectae locorum communium. London: Johannes Dayus, 1572. Fraunce, Abraham. The Arcadian Rhetorike. London: Thomas Orwin, 1588. Fraunce, Abraham. The Lawiers Logike. London: William How, 1588. Gain[e]sford, Thomas. The Rich Cabinet. London: John Beale for Roger Jackson, 1616. Gibson, Anthony. A Womans Woorth. London: John Wolfe, 1599. Giraldi, Lilio Gregorio [L. Greg. Gyraldo]. Historiae poetarum tam Graecorum quam Latinorum. Basileae: [M. Isengrin], 1545. Godfridus. The Boke of Knowledge of Thyngs Unknowen. [London]: [R. Wyer], [1556?]. Gosson, Stephen. An Apologie of the Schoole of Abuse. London: Thomas Dawson, 1579. Gosson, Stephen. The S[c]hoole of Abuse. London: Printed for Thomas Woodcocke, 1579. Greaves, Thomas. Songes of Sundrie Kindes. London: John Windet, 1604. Haddon, Walter. Poematum Gualteri Haddoni, Legum Doctoris, sparsim collectorum, libri duo. London: Gulielmum Seresium, 1576. Hakewill, George. An Apologie or Declaration of Power and Providence of God in the Government of the World. London: Robert Allott, 1630. Harington, Sir John. Epigrams Both Pleasant and Serious. London: John Budge, 1615. Harington, Sir John. The Most Elegant and Witty Epigrams. London: G. P. for John Budge, 1618. Hawkins, Henry [H. A.]. Parthenia sacra. [Rouen]: John Cousturier, 1633. Herbert, George. The Temple. 2nd ed. [Cambridge]: T. Buck and R. Daniel, 1633. Heydon, Christopher. A Defense of Judiciall Astrologie. Cambridge: John Legat, 1603. Heylyn, Peter. A History of the Sabbath. London: Henry Seile, 1636. Hilton, John. Ayres or Fa La’s for Three Voyces. London: Humfrey Lownes, 1627. Holborne, Antony. Pavans, Galliards, Almains, and other short Æirs. London: William Barley, 1599. Holder, William. A Treatise of the Natural Grounds and Principles of Harmony. London: J. Helptinstall for J. Carr, B. Aylmer, W. Hensman, and L. Meredith, 1694.

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Holyday, Barten. Technogamia: or the Marriages of the Arts. London: William Stansby for John Parker, 1618. Hooker, Richard. Of the Lawes of Ecclesiasticall Politie. The Fift Booke. London: John Windet, 1597. Hooker, Richard. Of the Lawes of Ecclesiastical Politie. London: Andrew Crooke, 1666. Hornbye, William. Hornbyes Hornbook. [London]: Thomas Bayly, 1622. [Howard, Henry]. A Defense of the Ecclesiasticall Regiment in Englande. London: Henry Bynneman for Humfrey Toy, 1574. Hume, Tobias. The First Part of Ayres, French Pollish, and Others. London: John Windet, 1605. Hume, Tobias. Poeticall Musicke. London: John Windet, 1607. Ingpen, William. The Secrets of Numbers; According to Their Theologicall, Arithmeticall, Geometricall and Harmonicall Computation. London: Humphrey Lownes for John Parker, 1624. J. B. Hagiastrologia, or, The most sacred and divine science of astrology. London: William Bromwich, 1680. James I, King of England and Scotland. Daemonologie. Edinburgh, 1597. Reprint, London: William Cotton and Will[iam] Aspley, 1603. [ Jewel, John]. The Second Tome of Homilees. London: Richard Iugge, and John Cawood, 1570. Jones, John. The Arte and Science of preserving Bodie and Soule in Healthe, Wisedome, and Catholike Religion. London: Henrie Bynneman, 1579. Jonson, Ben. The Workes of Benjamin Jonson. Vol. 2. London: Richard Meighen, 1640. Jordanova, L. J. Sexual Visions: Images of Gender in Science and Medicine between the Eighteenth and Twentieth Centuries. Madison: University of Wisconsin Press, 1989. King, John. Vitis Palatina. London: John Bill, 1614. The Ladies Dictionarie; Being a General Entertainment for the Fair-­Sex. London: John Dunton, 1694. The Lamentable and Tragical History of Titus Andronicus. London: J. Clarke, W. Thackeray, and T. Passinger, n.d. University of California, Santa Barbara, English Broadside Ballad Archive, EBBA ID: 20800. http://​ebba​.english​.ucsb​ .edu​/ballad​/20800​/image. Lavater, Ludwig [Lewes Lavaterus]. Of Ghostes and Spirites Walking by Nyght. Translated by R[obert]. H[arrison]. London: Henry Benneyman for Richard Watkyns, 1572.

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Lemnius, Levinus. The Secret Miracles of Nature. London: Jo. Streater for Humphrey Moseley, 1658. Lemnius, Levinus. The Touchstone of Complexions. Translated by Thomas Newton. London: Thomas Marsh, 1581. Leuven, Ludovicus van. Amoris Divini et Humani Antipathia. Antwerp: Michaëlem Snyders, 1629. Lever, Ralph. The Art of Reason. London: H. Bynneman, 1573. L[ing], N[icholas]. Politeuphuia. London: J. R[oberts] for Nicholas Ling, 1597. L[ing], N[icholas]. Politeuphuia. Wits Common wealth. 2nd ed. London: J. R[oberts] for Nicholas Ling, 1598. Lloyd, Lodowick. The Pilgrimage of Princes. London: William Jones, [1573?]. Lodge, Thomas. A Reply to Stephen Gosson’s Schoole of Abuse. [London]: n.p., [1579–80]. Mace, Thomas. Musicks Monument. London: T. Ratcliffe and N. Thompson, 1676. Maplet, John. The Diall of Destiny. London: Thomas Marsh, 1581. Marbeck, John [ John Merbecke]. The Book of Common Prayer Noted. London: Richard Grafton, 1550. Marbeck, John. A Booke of Notes and Common Places. London: Thomas East, 1581. Marston, John. The History of Antonio and Mellida. The First Part. London: Mathewe Lownes and Thomas Fisher, 1602. Marston, John. The Wonder of Women Or The Tragedie of Sophonisba. London: John Windet, 1605. Melvill[e], Sir James. The Memoires. London: E. H. for Robert Boulter, 1683. Meres, Francis. Palladis Tamia. Wits Treasury. London: P[eter] Short for Cuthbert Burbie, 1598. Meres, Francis. Wits Common Wealth, the second part. London: William Stansby for Richard Royston, 1634. M[eres], Fr[ancis]. Witts Academy: A Treasurie of Goulden Sentences, Similes, and Examples. London: Printed for Richard Royston, 1635. Michaelis, Sébastien. The Admirable History of the Posession and Conversion of a Penitent woman: Seduced by a Magician that made her to become a witch. Translated by W. B. London: F. Kingston for William Aspley, [1613]. Moffett [Muffett], Thomas. Healths Improvement. Corr. and enl. by Christopher Bennet. London: Tho[mas] Newcomb for Samuel Thomson, 1655. Montaigne, Michel de. Essais de messire Michel, seigneur de Montaigne [. . .] edition seconde, reveue et augmentée. Bordeaux: S. Millange, 1582. Montaigne, Michel de. Essays. Translated by John Florio. London: Melch. Bradwood for Edward Blount and William Barret, 1613.

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More, Henry. Cupids Conflict. In Democritus Platonissans. Cambridge: Roger Daniel, 1646. More, Henry. The Immortality of the Soul. London: J. Flesher for William Morden, 1659. Morley, Thomas. Canzonets. or Little Short Songs to Foure Voyces. London: Peter Short, 1597. Morley, Thomas. A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke. London: Peter Short, 1597. Moxon, Joseph. Mathematicks made Easie: or, A Mathematical Dictionary. London: Joseph Moxon, 1679. Mulcaster, Richard. Positions Wherein Those Primitive Circumstances Be Examined, Which are Necessarie for the Training Up of Children. London: Thomas Vautrollier for Thomas Chare, 1581. Mundy, John. Songs and Psalmes. London: Thomas E[a]st the assigne of William Byrd, 1594. Nabbes, Thomas. Microcosmus, a Moral Maske. London: Richard Oulton for Charles Greene, 1637. Noot, Jan van der [ John Van Der Noodt]. A Theatre Wherein Be Represented as Wel the Miseries & Calamities That Follow the Voluptuous Worldlings. London: Henry Bynneman, 1569. Norden, John. A Godlie Mans Guide to Happinesse. London: A. M. for John Marriott, 1624. Northbrooke, John. Spiritus est vicarius Christi in terra. A treatise wherein Dicing, Dau[n]cing, Vaine plaies or Enterludes with other idle pastimes, &c. commonly used on the Sabboth day, are reprooued. London: Thomas Dawson for George Bishoppe, 1579. Northbrooke, John. A Treatise wherein Dicing, Dauncing, Vaine playes or Enterluds with other idle pastimes commonly used on the Sabboth day, are reproved by the authoritie of the word of God and auntient writers. London: H. Bynneman for George Byshop, [1577]. Norton, Thomas. The Ordinall of Alchimy. In Theatrum chemicum Britannicum, edited by Elias Ashmole, 1–106. London: J. Grismond for Nath. Brooke, 1652. Ornithoparcus, Andreas. Micrologus, or Introduction: Containing the Art of Singing. Translated by John Dowland. London: Thomas Adams, 1609. Palfreyman, Thomas, ed. A Treatice of Morall Philosophy contaynynge the sayinges of the wyse. [5th ed., rev. and enl.] London: Richard Totyll, 1579. Palfreyman, Thomas, ed. A Treatise of Morall philosophy [. . .] first gathered and set forth by William Bauldwin. London: Richard Bishop. 1651. First published 1547.

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Paracelsus, [Theophrastus von Hohenheim]. Of the Supreme Mysteries of Nature. Translated by Robert Turner. London: [Robert Turner], 1655. [Parker, Matthew, and Thomas Tallis.] The Whole Psalter Translated into English Metre. London: John Daye, 1567. Peacham, Henry, [Minister]. The Garden of Eloquence, Conteyning the Figures of Grammar and Rhetorick. London: H. Jackson, 1577. Peacham, Henry, [the Younger]. The Compleat Gentleman. 2nd ed. London: Francis Constable, 1634. Peacham, Henry, [the Younger]. Minerva Britanna, or A Garden of Heroical Devises. London: Wa. Dight, [1612]. P[hillips], E[dward]. The Mysteries of Love and Eloquence, or the Arts of Wooing and Complementing. 3rd ed. London: James Rawlins for Obadiah Blagrave, 1685. P[hillips], E[dward]. The New World of English Words: or, A General Dictionary. London: E. Tyler for Nath. Brooke, 1658. A Physical dictionary,or, An Interpretation of such crabbed Words and Terms of Arts, as are deriv'd from the Greek or Latin, and used in physick, anatomy, chirurgery, and chymistry. London: G. D. for John Garfield, 1657. Pliny [C. Plinius, Secundus]. The Naturall Historie. Translated by Philemon Holland. London: Adam Islip, 1601. Plutarch. The Philosophie, commonlie called The Morals. Translated by Philemon Holland. London: Arnold Hatfield, 1603. Poole, Josua. The English Parnassus: or, A Helpe to English Poesie. London: Tho[mas] Johnson, 1657. Porta, Giambattista della [ John Baptist Porta]. Natural Magick: In XX Bookes. London: Thomas Young and Samuel Speed, 1658. Porter, Walter. Madrigales and Ayres. London: William Stansby, 1632. Potts, Thomas. The Wonderful Discoverie of Witches in the Countie of Lancaster. London: W. Stansby for John Borwne, 1613. The Praise of Musicke. Oxford: Joseph Barnes, 1586. Prynne, William. Histrio-­Mastix: The Players Scourge, or Actors Tragedie. London: Michael Sparke, 1633. Purchas, Samuel. Purchas his Pilgrim. London: W. S. for Henry Fetherstone, 1619. Quarles, Fra[ncis]. Emblemes. London: Printed by G. M. for John Marriot, 1635. Ralegh, Walter. The History of the World. London: Walter Burre, 1614. Ravenscroft, Thomas. A Briefe Discourse, of the True (but neglected) Use of Charact’ring the Degrees. London: Printed by Edw[ard] Allde for Tho[mas] Adams, 1614.

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Ravenscroft, Thomas. Melismata: Musicall Phansies. London: William Stansby for Thomas Adama, 1611. Ravenscroft, Thomas. Pammelia. Musicks Miscellanie. London: William Barley, 1609. Ravenscroft, Thomas. The Whole Booke of Psalmes, newly corrected and enlarged. London: Company of Stationers, 1621. Read, Alexander. The Manuall of the Anatomy or dissection of the body of Man. London: R. Bishop for Francis Constable, 1641. Recorde, Robert. The Grounde of Arts, teachyng the perfect worke and practice of arithmetike. Rev. ed. London: Reynold Wolff, 1552. [Recorde, Robert]. The Whetstone of Witte. [London]: John Byngstone, 1557. Reisch, Gregor. Margarita Philosophica. [Freiburg]: Joanne[m] Schottu[m] Argen[toratensis], 1503. Reynolds, Henry. Mythomystes. London: Henry Seyle, [1632]. Robinson, Thomas. The Schoole of Musicke. London: Thomas Este for Simon Waterson, 1603. Rogers, Daniel. Matrimoniall Honour. London: Thomas Harper for Philip Nevil, 1642. Rollenhagen, Gabriel. Nucleus emblematum selectissimorum. Coloniae: Crispini Passaei, [1611]. Romei, Annibale. The Courtiers Academie. Translated by J. K. London: Valentine Sims, [1598]. Salmon, Thomas. An Essay To the Advancement of Musick. London: J. Macock for John Car[r], 1672. Sandys, George. Ovids Metamorphosis Englished, Mythologiz’d and Represented in Figures. Oxford: John Lichfield, 1632. Shakespeare, William. Comedies, Histories and Tragedies. London: Printed by Isaac Jaggard and Ed[ward] Blount, 1623. Shakespeare, William. Sonnets. London: G. Eld for T[homas] T[horpe], 1609. Simpson, Christopher. Chelys [. . .] = The division-­viol, or, The art of playing ex tempore upon a ground, divided into three parts. 2nd ed. London: W[illiam] Godbid for Henry Brome, 1667. First published 1665. Simpson, Christopher. A Compendium of Practical Musick. London: William Godbid for Henry Brome, 1667. Simson, Archibald [M. A. Symson]. Heptameron, The Seven Dayes. St. Andrews: Edward Raban, 1621. Smith, Henry. The Sermons. London: Richard Field for Thomas Man, 1593. Spencer, John. Votivae Angliae, Englands Complaint to their King. London: H. Dudley, 1643.

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Stepney, William. The Spanish Schoole-­master. London: R. Field for John Harison, 1591. Sternhold [Starnhold], Thomas, J[ohn] Hopkins, and others. The Whole Booke of Psalmes. London: John Day, 1562. Sternhold, Thomas, and J[ohn] Hopkins. The Whole Booke of Psalmes, Collected into Englishe Metre. Geneva: John Crespin, 1569. Sternh[old], Thomas, John Hopkins, and others. The Whole Booke of Psalmes. London: John Daye, 1572. Stubbes, Phillip. The Anatomie of Abuses. London: Richard Jones, 1583. Sydenham, Humphrey. Sermons Upon Solemne Occasions. London: John Beale for Humphrey Robinson, 1637. Sydenham, Humphrey. The Wel-­Tun’d Cymball. London, 1637. Tallis, Thomas, and William Byrd [Thoma Tallisio & Guilielmo Birdo Anglis]. Cantiones, quae ab argumento sacrae vocantur: quinque et sex partium. London: Thomas Vautrollerius, 1575. Tomkins, Thomas. Musica Deo Sacra. London: William Godbid for Timothy Garthwait, 1668. Tomkins, Thomas. Songs of 3. 4. 5. and 6. Parts. London: [Thomas Snodham] for Matthew Lownes, and John Brown for Thomas Snodham, 1622. Topsell, Edward. The Historie of Foure-­Footed Beastes. London: William Jaggard, 1607. A Treatise Of Daunses, wher in it is shewed, that they are as it were accessories and depe[n]dants (or things annexed) to whoredome. [London]: n.p., 1581. Trelcatius, Lucas. A Briefe Institution of the Common Places of Sacred Divinity. Translated by John Gawen. London: T. P. for Francis Burton, 1610. Twyne, Thomas. The Schoolemaster or Teacher of Table Phylosophie. London: Richard Johnes, 1576. Vaughan, Thomas [Eugenius Philalethes]. Magia Adamica: or the Antiquitie of Magic. London: T. W. for H. Blunden, 1650. Vaughan, William. Approved Directions for Health. 4th ed., corr. and enl. London: T. S. for Roger Jackson, 1612. Vaughan, W[illiam]. The Golden-­grove, moralized in three books. London: Simon Stafford, 1600. [Vermigli, Peter Martyr]. The Common Places. Translated by Anthonie Marten. London: n.p., 1583. Wallis, John. “A Letter . . . concerning the Strange Effects reported of Musick in Former Times.” Philosophical Transactions [of the Royal Society of London] 20/21 (1698–99): 297.

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W[alkington], T[homas]. The Optick Glasse of Humors. [London]: J. D. for L. B., 1639. Weelkes, Thomas. Ayeres or Phantasticke Spirites for three voices. London: William Barley, 1608. Weelkes, Thomas. Ballets and Madrigals to Five Voyces. London: Thomas Este for William Barley, 1598. Weelkes, Thomas. Madrigals of 5. and 6. parts apt for the Viols and voices. London: Thomas Este for Thomas Morley, 1600. Whight, Nicholas. A commendation of Musicke, And a confutation of them which disprayse it. London: Alexander Lacy, [1563?]. Whitgift, John. An Answere to a certen Libel intituled, An Admonition to the Parliament. London: Henry Bynneman for Humphrey Toy, 1572. Whitlock, Richard. Zootomia, or Observations on the Present Manners of the English. London: Printed by Tho[mas] Roycroft for Humphrey Mosley, 1654. Whythorne, Thomas. Songes, for three fower and five voyces. London: Printed by John Daye dwelling ouer Aldersgate, 1571. Whythorne, Thomas. Tenor, of songes, for fiue voyces. London: John Day, 1571. Wilkins, John. Mathematicall Magick, or the Wonders that May Be Performed by Mechanicall Geometry. London: M. F. for Sa. Gellibrand, 1648. Wilkinson, Ro[bert]. A Jewell for the Eare. London: Thomas Pavyer, 1605. Willis, John. Mnemonica, or, The Art of Memory. London: Leonard Sowersby, 1661. Wilson, Thomas. The Arte of Rhetorique. N.p.: n.p., 1553. Wilson, Thomas. The Rule of Reason Conteining the Arte of Logique. [London]: [R. Grafton], [1552]. Wirsung, Christoph [Christopher Wirtsung]. Praxis Medicinae Universalis; or a Generall Practise of Physicke. Translated by Jacob Mosan. London: Edward Bollifant, 1598. Wit and Mirth: or, Pills to Purge Melancholy. London: Will[iam] Pearson for Henry Playford, 1699. Wither, George. A Collection of Emblemes, Ancient and Moderne. London: Printed by A. M. for Henry Taunton, 1635. The Wonderful Discouerie of the Witchcrafts of Margaret and Phillip Flower, daughters of Joan Flower neere Bevuer Castle. London: G. Eld for J. Barnes, 1619. Wotton, Henry. The Elements of Architecture. London: John Bill, 1624. Wright, L[eonard]. A Display of Dutie: Dect With Sage Sayings, Pythie Sentences, and Proper Similies. London: John Wolfe, 1589. Wright, Thomas. The Passions of the Minde in Generall. Rev. ed. London: Valentine Simmes for Walter Burre, 1604.

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Austern, Linda Phyllis. “Music and Manly Wit in Seventeenth-­Century England: The Case of the Catch.” In Concepts of Creativity in Seventeenth-­Century England, edited by Rebecca Herissone and Alan Howard, 281–308. Woodbridge, Suffolk: Boydell Press, 2013. Austern, Linda Phyllis, ed. Music, Sensation, and Sensuality. New York: Routledge, 2002. Austern, Linda Phyllis. “‘My Mother Musicke’: Music and Early Modern Fantasies of Embodiment.” In Maternal Measures: Figuring Caregiving in the Early Modern Period, edited by Naomi J. Miller and Naomi Yavneh, 239–81. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2000. Austern, Linda Phyllis. “‘Sing Againe Syren’: The Female Musician and Sexual Enchantment in Elizabethan Life and Literature.” Renaissance Quarterly 42 (1989): 420–48. Bacon, Francis. De augmentis scientiarum. In Translations of the Philosophical Works, Volume 1. The Works of Francis Bacon, edited by Robert Leslie Ellis, Douglas Denton Heath, and James Spedding, vol. 4. London: Longman’s, 1883. Barish, Jomas. The Antitheatrical Prejudice. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1981. Barker, Andrew, ed. Greek Musical Writings. Vol. 2, Harmonic and Acoustic Theory. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1989. Barnett, Howard B. “John Case—An Elizabethan Music Scholar.” Music and Letters 50 (1969): 252–66. Barthes, Roland. A Lover’s Discourse: Fragments. Translated by Richard Howard. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1978. Bataille, Georges. Eroticism: Death and Sensuality. Translated by Mary Dalwood. San Francisco: City Lights Books, 1986. Beal, Peter. “Commonplace Book.” In A Dictionary of English Manuscript Terminology 1450–2000, 82–83. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. Beal, Peter. “Notes in Garrison: The Seventeenth-­Century Commonplace Book.” In New Ways of Looking at Old Texts: Papers of the Renaissance English Text Society, 1985–1991, edited by W. Speed Hill, 131–47. Binghamton, NY: Medieval & Renaissance Texts & Studies; Renaissance English Text Society, 1993. Beare, John I. Greek Theories of Elementary Cognition. Oxford: Clarendon, 1906. Beecher, Donald. “Concerning Sex Changes: The Cultural Significance of a Renaissance Medical Polemic.” Sixteenth-­Century Journal 36 (2005): 991–1016. Béhar, Pierre. Les langues occultes de la Renaissance. Paris: Éditions Desjonquères, 1996.

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Beier, Lucinda McCray. Sufferers and Healers: The Experience of Illness in Seventeenth-­Century England. London: Routledge and Kegan Paul, 1987. Bettini, Maurizio. Women and Weasels: Mythologies of Birth in Ancient Greece and Rome. Translated by Emlyn Eisenach. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2013. Binns, J. W. Intellectual Culture in Elizabethan and Jacobean England: The Latin Writings of the Age. Leeds: Francis Cairns, 1990. Birchensha, John. Writings on Music. Edited by Christopher D. S. Field and Benjamin Wardhaugh. Music Theory in Britain 1500–1700: Critical Editions. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010. Blackburn, Bonnie J. “The Lascivious Career of B-­Flat.” In Eroticism in Early Modern Music, edited by Bonnie Blackburn and Laurie Stras, 19–42. Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2015. Blair, Ann M. Too Much to Know: Managing Scholarly Information before the Modern Age. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2010. Bloom, Gina. Voice in Motion: Staging Gender, Shaping Sound in Early Modern England. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2007. Boden, Anthony, ed. Thomas Tomkins: The Last Elizabethan. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2005. Boethius, Anicius Manlius [Torquantus] Severinus. Fundamentals of Music. Translated by Calvin Bower and edited by Claude Palisca. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1989. Bolle, Kees. “Structures of Renaissance Mysticism.” In The Darker Vision of the Renaissance: Beyond the Fields of Reason, edited by Robert S. Kinsman, 119–45. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1974. Bono, James J. “Medical Spirits and the Medieval Language of Life.” Traditio 40 (1984): 91–130. Boretz, Benjamin. “(‘Starting Now, From Here, . . .’). Three Consecutive Occasions of Sociomusical Reflection.” Perspectives of New Music 30 (1992): 249–83. Bossy, John. The English Catholic Community 1570–1850. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976. Boyd, Morrison Comegys. Elizabethan Music and Musical Criticism. 2nd ed. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1962. Bray, Roger. “Editing and Performing Musica Speculativa.” In English Choral Practice, 1400–1650, edited by John Morehen, 48–73. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995. Bray, Roger. “Music and the Quadrivium in Early Tudor England.” Music and Letters 76 (1995): 1–18. Brokaw, Katherine Steele. Staging Harmony: Music and Religious Change in Late

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Cohen, H. Floris. “La musique comme science physique et mathematique au XVIIe siecle.” In Musique et humanisme a la Renaissance, 73–81. Cahiers V. L. Saulnier 10. Paris: Presses de l’Ecole normale supérieure, 1993. Cohen, H. F[loris]. Quantifying Music: The Science of Music at the First Stage of the Scientific Revolution, 1580–1650. Dordrecht: D. Reidel, 1984. Cohen, H. Floris. The Rise of Modern Science Explained. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Collinson, Patrick. The Birthpangs of Protestant England: Religious and Cultural Change in the Sixteenth and Seventeenth Centuries. New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1988. Cook, Harold J. The Decline of the Old Medical Regime in Stuart London. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1986. Copenhaver, Brian. Magic in Western Culture from Antiquity to the Enlightenment. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015. Copenhaver, Brian, and Charles B. Schmitt. Renaissance Philosophy. A History of Western Philosophy 3. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992. Couliano, Ioan P. Eros and Magic in the Renaissance. Translated by Margaret Cook. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1987. Crane, Mary Thomas. Framing Authority: Sayings, Self, and Society in Sixteenth-­ Century England. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1993. Cumming, Naomi. The Sonic Self: Musical Subjectivity and Signification. Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 2000. Curry, Patrick. “Astrology in Early Modern England: The Making of a Vulgar Knowledge.” In Science, Culture and Popular Belief in Renaissance Europe, edited by Stephen Pumfrey, Paolo L. Rossi, and Maurice Slawinski, 274–91. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1991. Darnton, Robert. “First Steps Toward a History of Reading.” Australian Journal of French Studies 23 (1986): 5–30. Dart, Thurston. “Miss Mary Burwell’s Instruction Book for the Lute.” Galpin Society Journal 11 (1958): 3–62. Daston, Lorraine, and Katharine Park. Wonders and the Orders of Nature 1150–1750. New York: Zone, 1998. Davies, Stevie. The Feminine Reclaimed: The Idea of Woman in Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton. Lexington: University of Kentucky Press, 1986. Debus, Allen G. “Chemistry and the Quest for a Material Spirit of Life in the Seventeenth Century.” In Spiritus: Ivo Colloquio Internazionale, edited by M. Fattori e M. Bianchi, 245–63. Lessico intellettuale Europeo 32. Rome: Edizioni dell’Ateneo, 1984. Debus, Allen G. “Mathematics and Nature in the Chemical Texts of the Renais-

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Index

Pages numbers in italics refer to illustrations and musical examples. acoustical theory, 126 acoustics, 3, 14, 40, 93, 115, 122, 163, 199; and psychoacoustics, 162 affect, 68, 163–64, 173, 178–80, 188, 204, 208, 216, 235, 240, 253–54, 257, 263; human voice, affective power of, 203; music, affective powers of, 5, 17, 42, 157, 160–62, 165, 169–70, 189, 198–99, 229–30. See also emotion; passion affection, 34, 113, 163, 188, 199, 209–12, 226–28, 231, 234–36, 241–42, 250, 256, 265–67; of the heart, 68–69; of the mind, 165, 204, 225 Agrippa von Nettesheim, Henry Cornelius, 12–13, 55, 57, 60, 72, 74, 113, 132, 137–38, 166, 197, 204–5, 210, 303n132 alchemy, 128–30, 140, 223; as defined, 137; detractors of, 137; esoteric aspects of, 137; magic, connection to, 136; quackery, as epitome of, 137; secrecy, as doctrine of, 138 Allison, Richard, 231 Allot, Robert, 32, 158, 160; Wits Theater of the Little World, 44 alpherion, 233. See also orpharion Alsted, Johann Heinrich, Encyclopaedia, 155 Ambrose, Saint, 44 Amphion, 132–33, 136, 164 Aquinas, Thomas, 72, 113 architecture, 2, 98, 117 Aristotle, 12, 17–21, 28, 30–31, 33, 40, 43–44, 59, 97, 98, 108–9, 111, 113, 138, 163, 172, 174–75, 177, 205, 207, 225, 228, 230, 233, 237, 247, 249; De Anima, 210; Politics, 10, 23, 231 Aristoxenus, 113, 163, 172

arithmetic, 2, 91–92, 94, 97, 100, 108, 114–15, 128, 137, 157, 168, 170–71 Ascham, Roger, 126, 232 astrology, 97–98, 128–30, 147, 210, 223; agriculture and husbandry, 140; and astronomy, 138–39; definition of, 139; detractors of, 137; and divination, 140; magic, connection to, 136; as morally questionable, 146; music, affinity with, 138, 140–44, 146; numbers, rooted in, 140 astronomy, 92, 97, 108, 114, 117, 128; and astrology, 138–39 Athanasius, Saint, 17, 19, 44, 57–58; Expositiones in Psalmos, 59 Attey, John, 253 Augustine, Saint, 17, 33, 42, 44–45, 56–58, 60, 70, 75, 78, 113; Confessions, 23, 47, 55, 59 Averroes, 175, 207 Avicenna, 174–75, 207 ayres, 48, 78, 134, 172–73, 262, 266; and women, 263–64 Bacon, Francis, 26, 98, 101, 132, 140–41, 172–77, 183, 184, 188–89, 194–95, 200–201, 214, 238, 255, 265–66; Advancement and Proficiencie of Learning, 221–22; Essays, 1 Baldwin, William, 77; Beware the Cat, 146–47 balladry, 57–58, 67; broadside, 132; as moralizing, 63 Barley, William, 119; New Booke of Tabliture, 254; Pathway to Musicke, 115, 119 Barnes, Joseph, 7

373

374  Index Barthes, Roland, 71 Bartholomeus Anglicus, 60; De proprietatibus rerum, 58–59 Basil, Saint, 17, 55; ad Psalmos, 47; Homiliae in Psalmos, 59 Basse, William, Helpe to Discourse, 24, 27 Bateson, Thomas, Second Set of Madrigales, 230 Batman, Stephen, 58–63, 65, 67, 70–71, 101, 103, 105–6, 150 Baxter, Richard, 75 Becon, Thomas, 54–55, 58 Bedford, Countess of (Lucy [Harrington] Russell), 263 Bennet, John, 266 Bible in Englyshe, 48 Birchensha, John, 160, 170; Discourse of the Principles of the Practical & Mathematicall Partes of Musick, 115; Templum Musicum, 155, 156 Bloom, Gina, 3 Blount, Thomas, 105, 139–40 Blundeville, Thomas, 25, 29–31; The Pathway to Musicke, 100 Boethius, 12, 20, 59, 95, 99, 105, 106, 108, 113, 124, 138, 140–41, 144, 155, 163, 166, 168, 240, 309n3; De institutione musica, 9, 121 Boleyn, Anne, 251 Boorde, Andrew, 36, 224, 255 Brady, Nicholas, 192 Brathwaite, Richard, 69, 117, 119, 127, 130 Bray, Roger, 95 Brett, Philip, 8 Bright, Timothy, 246–47, 251, 255–57, 260–62, 264; Treatise of Melancholy, 250 Brinsley, John, 32, 34–35 Brokaw, Katherine Steele, 49 Browne, Thomas, 148–50 Bruno, Giordano, 207 Bull, John, 151; “Melancholy Galliard,” 257, 262–63; “Melancholy Pavan,” 257, 261 Bullein, William, 223–24, 246 Bullokar, John, 93, 98, 100, 130, 137, 140; English Expositor, 92, 246 Burton, Robert, 52, 198–99, 228, 247, 249, 255–57; Anatomy of Melancholy, 251, 253–54 Burwell, Mary, 217–19, 221–25, 227, 235, 237–38, 241–42, 245, 250–51 Butler, Charles, 48, 56, 58, 81–82, 115, 119, 165, 178, 228–29, 241, 259, 262; Principles of Musik in Singing and Setting, 47, 50–51, 53, 85, 163 Byrd, William, 7–10, 18, 20, 23, 77, 151; “A gratification unto Master John Case,” 8; Psalmes, sonets, & songs of sadness and pietie, 54, 230, 233; Songs of Sundrie Natures, 59 Calvin, John, 45 Calvinism, 51; public music and music making, effect on, 52 Campion, Thomas, 136, 141–42, 150, 238; Third

and Fourth Booke of Ayres, 134–35, 135; “Thrice Toss These Oaken Ashes,” 134–35 capriccio, 214 Carey, Henry. See Hunsdon, Baron (Henry Carey) Cartari, Vincenzo, 143 Casa, Giovanni della, Galateo, 31 Casaubon, Meric, 72 Case, John, 9, 23, 36, 91, 96–97, 106, 134, 194–95, 199, 227, 255; Apologia musices, 7, 10, 12–13, 132; Sphaera civitatis, 7 Castiglione, Baldassarre, 15, 21, 96, 162, 232, 237, 250; Il libro del cortegiano (Book of the Courtyer), 10, 23, 66, 144, 160, 233 Catholicism, 131 Catholic ritual music, 55; heresy in, 51 Cats, Jacob, 201; Proteus ofte Minnebeelden, 202; “Quid non sentit amor,” 203 Cawdray, Robert, 26–29 Cecilia, Saint, 87 Chambers, John, Treatise against Judicial Astrologie, 146 Chantry, John, 155, 157, 160 Chapel Royal, 50 Chapman, George, 191, 193, 199; Ovids Banquet of Sense, 190 Chappell, William, 3 Charles I, 198 Charles II, 146 Charron, Pierre, 35 Chichester, Arthur, 230–31 Christian Church, musical heritage of, 43 Christianity, 54, 56, 67, 128, 136; Eastern, 51; as healing religion, 223–24; ritual music, 51 Church Fathers, 42–43, 57, 75, 78 Church of England, 53–55, 60, 131 Cicero, 17–18, 28, 31 cithara, 122 Clement of Alexandria, 17 Cockeram, Henry, 139–40 Coeffeteau, Nicolas, 207, 214 Cogan, Thomas, 223–24, 228, 230–32, 237, 251, 255; Haven of Health, 225 cogitation, 42, 73–74, 161, 165–67, 187, 205–6, 208 cognition, 5, 20, 174 cognitive theory, 67 Coke, Zachary, 28–30, 32 commendation of Musicke, A, 23–25 commonplaces, 2, 19, 24, 28–29, 32–34, 38, 44–45, 53–55, 57, 64, 72, 75, 85, 122, 157, 160, 163, 169, 235; as term, 30–31 composition, 8–9, 20, 76–79, 85, 95, 199, 213, 253; and artifice, 214, 241; as composed, 141–42; fantasy, association with, 212 concord, 59, 91, 94, 107–8, 111, 122, 132–33, 141, 146–47, 149, 151, 155, 158, 160, 162, 165, 168, 199, 201, 203; Concordia, as goddess, 101, 117; Concordia, as musical symbol, 103, 105, 150; vs. discord, 103; and sweetness, 100, 163, 170

Index  375 Copenhaver, Brian, 3 Corkine, William, 253 cornett, 157 corporeality, 21, 65, 92, 208; spiritual experience, rooted in, 68 Coryate, Thomas, 50–53, 72 Crooke, Helkiah, 171–76, 193, 197 Culpeper, Nicholas, 222 Daman, William, 54; Psalmes of David in English Meter, 48 Danyel, John, 253 Davies, John, 32, 167, 201, 257, 261–62 Dee, John, 97, 113, 119–20, 130–31, 136, 139–40; musica humana, and occult sympathies, combining of, 121–22 demonology, 130, 134 De musica, 17 Denny, Edward, 212 Desainliens, Claude, 49–50 Descartes, René, 203–4, 209, 211, 236, 265; Cartesian revisionism, 205 diabolism, 129 Digby, Kenelm, 172, 200–202, 208 disputation, 10–11, 13–14, 22, 33–35, 43, 53–54, 85, 250 divination, 130; and astrology, 140 divinity, 3, 26, 87, 99, 100–101, 108–9, 115, 120, 126, 148, 158–59, 162, 168–69, 171, 201, 208, 217, 224, 234; cosmic secrets, 99, 127, 147; and magic, 132; and marriage, 149; mathematical science, 166; and medicine, 223; and music, 132 Donne, John, 68, 99, 147, 194–95 Dow, Robert, 19–20 Dowland, John, 107, 169, 197, 253, 297n67; First Booke of Songes or Ayres, 1–2; “Flow My Tears,” 262; “Lachrimae,” 262, 264; “Melancholy Galliard,” 253, 263; Second Booke of Songs or Ayres, 263; “Semper Dowland, semper dolens,” 253, 264 Drummond, William, 122, 124 Du Bartas, Guillaume de Salluste, Divine Weekes and Workes, 239 Dudley, Robert. See Leicester, Earl of (Robert Dudley) DuJon, François, Painting of the Ancients, 100 Du Laurens, André, 167, 208, 210, 214, 246 Durandus, Guillelmus, 57 East, Thomas, 7, 23, 77, 263 Edwards, Richard, “In commendation of Musick,” 158–59 Edward VI, 52 Elisabeth of Bohemia, 209 Elizabethan era, 2–3, 51 Elizabeth I, 18, 43, 51–52, 58, 130, 134, 137, 242, 243, 251, 263

Elyot, Thomas, 12, 139, 228, 231, 237; Castel of Helth, 225, 226 emblematics, 127, 130, 155, 199, 201 emblem books, 9, 109, 242 emblems, 103, 114, 120, 122, 201, 249, 254 emotion, 70, 157–58, 165, 220, 234. See also affect; affection; passion encomium, 12, 23, 34, 36, 41, 77; rhetorical genres, overlapping with, 11 England, 3, 11, 13–14, 17, 23, 44, 47, 49, 52–53, 57, 72, 85, 90, 113, 128, 130–32, 137–41, 146, 171–72, 184–85, 212, 217, 250; Catholic minority in, 51; Reform thought in, 58; religious immigrants in, 51; sound and music, anxiety about sensuality of, 70, 75 English Jesuit College, 51 Erasmus, 57 eroticism: destructive aspect of, 68; emotional capacity of, 68 ethics, 13, 30, 34, 96, 109, 111 Euclid, Elements of Geometry, 97 Europe, 51, 128–29, 138 Eusebius of Caesaria, 122 exordium, 11 fantasy, 212–16 Farmer, John, First Set of English Madrigals, 143– 44 Feltham, Owen, 75, 80 Ferrand, Jacques, 249 Ficino, Marsilio, 12, 72, 113, 132, 134, 197, 199–200, 207 Fifteen Real Comforts of Matrimony, 150 Finney, Gretchen Ludke, 3 Florio, John, 36–37 Fludd, Robert, 113, 115, 147, 208; cosmic harmony, notions of, 126; Temple of Music, 118, 124; Tomus secundus de supernaturali . . . , 209; Utriusque cosmi majoris . . . , 117–18, 118, 125–26, 134–35 Folkerth, Wes, 3 Ford, Thomas, Musicke of Sundrie Kindes, 14 Foxe, John, 32 Fraunce, Abraham, 67, 75 free will, 90, 137, 140 Gaffurius, Franchinus, 99 Gainesford, Thomas, 24, 146; The Rich Cabinet, 31 Galen, 57, 163, 174–75, 205, 224–25, 227, 232, 235, 237, 247, 249, 251, 254–55 Galileo, 200–201 Gassendi, Pierre, 126 gender, 65–67, 69, 85, 163, 218, 263–64. See also sexuality geography, 3, 92, 222 geometry, 3, 92, 97–98, 108, 114–15, 117, 120, 138– 39; geometrical theory, 126 Gibbons, Orlando, Parthenia, 151

376  Index Gibson, Anthony, 144 Giraldi, Gregorio, Historiae poetarum tam Graecorum quam Latinorum, 18 Godfridus, 143 Gosson, Stephen, 17, 22–23, 36, 60, 90–91, 94, 105–6, 141 Gouk, Penelope, 3, 133 Grassineau, James, Musical Dictionary, 213–14 “gratification unto Master John Case, A” (Byrd and Watson), 7, 8, 9, 25, 77 Greece, 30, 106, 128–29 Grimeston, Edward, 207

theory, 238; musical modes, 240–41. See also melancholy; sanguine Hunsdon, Baron (Henry Carey), 58–59

Haddon, Walter, 15 Hake, Edward, 48–49, 53–54 Hakewell, George, 113–14 Harington, John, 189 harmony, 20, 31, 38, 45, 54, 79, 82, 84–85, 91, 95– 96, 100–101, 106–8, 111–13, 121–22, 126, 132, 134, 142–43, 147–48, 153, 160, 178, 190, 195, 201, 205, 218, 220, 228, 254, 256, 262; building design, 117; and marriage, 149–50, 152; mathematical laws of, 191; and music, 4, 157–59, 167– 68, 191, 211, 242, 250; and proportion, 4, 12, 114, 120, 133, 158, 211; and skepticism, 126 harp, 109, 120, 157, 159, 164, 200, 202–3, 246, 254; as body politic, 122 Hatton, Christopher, 230–31 Hawkins, Henry, Parthenia Sacra, 109, 111 healing, 3, 23, 66, 219, 222–24, 250–51, 255, 265 Henry VIII, 232, 251 Herbert, George, 83–84, 122 Herbert, Mary Sidney, 264 Hermes Trismegistus, 131–32 Hilliard, Nicholas, 243 Hilton, John, Ayres or Fa La’s, 254 Hippocrates, 225, 227, 237, 247, 249, 251, 254–55 Hoby, Margaret, 233 Hoby, Thomas, 11, 66, 160, 263 Holborne, Antony, 262–63; The Cittharn Schoole, 1; “The Countess of Pembroke’s Funerals,” 264; “The Image of Melancholly,” 257, 258, 259, 260, 261; Pavans, Galliards, Almains, and other short Æirs, 257 Holder, William, 211–12 Hole, William, 151–52 Holland, Philemon, 111, 140 Hollander, John, 3 Holyday, Barten, Technogamia, 253 Hooker, Richard, 74 hornbooks, 29 Howard, Phillip, 62–63 human voice, 204 Hume, Tobias, 19, 21; First Part of Ayres, 14; “I Am Melancholy,” 263; “Pashion of Musicke,” 236; Poeticall Musicke, 212; “Spirit of Gambo,” 199 humors, 142, 159, 196, 204, 228, 236, 239, 246, 249, 254, 265–66; humoral medicine, 238; humoral

James I, 23–24, 122, 130, 150–51 Jerome, Saint, 55 John Chrysostom, Saint, in Psalmos, 59 Johnson, Mark, 68, 71 Jones, John, 227, 229, 235, 237 Jones, Robert, 253; Ultimum Vale, 192 Jonson, Ben, 24; Newes from the New World Discover’d in the Moone, 126 “Jovial Songs,” 251 Jupiter, 251 Justin Martyr, 17, 56 Juvenal, 17

Iamblichus, 113 iatromathematics, 128 imagination, 208–9; and melancholy, 249–50; and memory, 210; and music, 211 Ingpen, William, 113–14, 142–43, 191–92 Ireland, 122 Isidore of Seville, 59 Italy, 117, 171

Kabbalah, 130 Kepler, Johannes, 113, 126 Kindi, al-­, 207 King, John, 150 Kircher, Athanasius, 113 Kövecses, Zoltán, 99 Ladies Dictionarie, 153 Lake, Edward, 254 Lakoff, George, 68, 71 Lancelot de Carles, 251 Lasso, Orlando di, 253 legerdemain, 129 Leicester, Earl of (Robert Dudley), 251 Lemnius, Levinus, 228–29, 236–39, 241, 243, 246, 249–50 Levi-­Strauss, Claude, 105 Ling, Nicholas, 1–2, 3–4, 24, 160, 170, 193; “Of Musicke,” 158, 251; Politeuphuia, 32; Wits Commonwealth, 44 listening, 25, 48, 50, 163, 178–79, 194, 257, 260 Lloyd, Lodowick, 60 Lodge, Thomas, 60 logic, 30, 33, 35 London, 19, 50, 135–36; international Calvinist diaspora, center of, 51–52 Long, John H., 2–3 Lord Chamberlain’s Men, 59 Lorte, William, 27 lute, 120, 217–21, 223, 234–35, 247, 251, 254; heavenly origins of, 224 lyre, 112, 121–22, 134, 142, 157, 221

Index  377 Mace, Thomas, 87, 115, 121, 126; Musicks Monument, 116 madrigal, 78–79, 197 magic, 3, 223, 304n143; and alchemy, 136; and astrology, 136; Christian practice, close ties to, 130–31; as defined, 128–30; demonic, 72, 128; depiction of, in entertainment, 132; diversity of, 130; dramatic representations of, 135; erotic desire, link to, 136; music, numerical roots of, 132–34, 136; natural, 3, 93, 97, 128–30, 132–34, 136–38, 140, 249; and science, 4; and skepticism, 129; and women, 130. See also occult sciences Maplet, John, 143–44, 146 Marbeck, John, 24, 47, 58; Booke of Notes and Common Places, 45 Marcus Aurelius, 11 Marenzio, Luca, 253 marriage, 150; and harmony, 149; and music, 151– 53 Marsh, Christopher, Music and Society in Early Modern England, 3 Marston, John, 10, 170; Antonio and Mellida, 208 Mary I, 51–52 mathematics, 21, 92, 95–97, 100, 111, 128, 130–33, 147, 176; and divinity, 127; as liberal, 98, 115, 139–40; and music, 114, 127, 164; and occult, 127; spiritually dangerous practices, as code for, 127 McAdams, Stephen, 162–63 McLeod, Ken, 144 medicine, 222, 225, 227, 229, 251; and divinity, 223; and music, 322n24; natural philosophy, 223 melancholy, 167, 198, 211, 215, 227, 230, 238, 241, 251, 262–63; grief, synonymous with, 250; hermits, association with, 249; and imagination, 249–50; and madness, 249; and music, 246– 47, 249–50, 253–58, 264–65. See also humors Melvill, James, 251 memory, 30–32, 34, 101, 106, 199, 205–6, 215, 218; emotion, provoking of, 161; and imagination, 119, 210; and music, 211, 224–25, 257; and spirits, 210 Mercury, 142, 157 Meres, Francis, 24; Wits Commonwealth, 163 Mersenne, Marin, 126 metaphor, 2, 16, 21, 37, 67–69, 99–101, 106–7, 112– 14, 119–20, 124, 126, 129, 133–34, 147, 177, 191, 193, 201, 203, 245; and allegory, 105; and metaphysics, 4; and music, 4, 75, 105–6, 151–53, 162, 169, 193; of sexual violence, 71, 90 metaphysics, 4, 21, 97, 129, 153, 218, 266 Middle Ages, 95, 138, 144, 208, 222 Middleton, Thomas, The Witch, 304–5n153 Mildmay, Grace (Sharrington), 263 minstrels, 16–17 Mirmonde, Albert Pomme de, 144, 146 Moffet, Thomas, 237; Healths Improvement, 227

monochord, 111, 121, 124 Montaigne, Michel de, 28, 91 moral philosophy, 2, 34 More, Henry, 196–97; Cupids Conflict, 79 Morley, Thomas, 19, 22–23, 33, 94–96, 99, 132, 143, 178, 197, 212–14, 231, 253, 259–61, 263, 265–66; A Plaine and Easie Introduction to Practicall Musicke, 1–2, 10, 24, 27–28, 77–78, 114–15 Moxon, Joseph, 128, 130, 141, 147, 170 Mulcaster, Richard, 36, 74, 170, 210, 224, 233–34, 237 music, 8, 29, 37–38, 108, 139, 192, 216; abstraction and concretion, conceptual space between, 2; and adhortation, 40; affective powers of, 5; airy nature of, 198–200, 212, 256; and allegory, 105; antiquity of, 158; architecture, relationship between, 117; argument about, 9–10; arithmetic, debt to, 114–15; as art, 2, 59, 61, 87; art and science, 91–92; astrology, affinity with, 138, 140–44, 146; and astronomy, 97, 100–101, 114; as audible, 101, 103, 106, 142, 167–68; audible harmony, 167; audible music, as harmful, 57; bodily and spiritual ways of knowing, 4; body and mind, dissolving bonds of, 74–80, 83–85, 90, 97, 167–69, 218, 224, 234–37, 251, 255, 267; Calvinism, effect on, 52; carnality of, 57; and chastity, 66; Christian contemplation, 217; in Christian worship, 4; and chromaticism, 258–59; church music, 55–57; church music, objections to, 47–48; and cogitation, 208; and cognition, 5, 174; cognitive-­affective, 204–5; cognitive-­linguistic framework of, 169; common stock of words, borrowing from, 54; as conceptual tool, 101; and consciousness, 5; corporeal perception of, 90, 163–64, 256; cosmic secrets, 157–58; as dangerous, 70–71; darker aspects of, 71; definitions of, 94–96, 158, 165; deleterious effects of, 16–17; dialectical understanding of, 15, 21–22; and diatonicism, 258–59; and discourse, 9; disputational approach to, 34–35, 43, 53–54, 85; divine effects of, 87, 90, 147, 164, 234–35; as divine gift, 157–58, 220; double principle of, 234; ecclesiastical use, 41; and ecstasy, 81–82; as embodied, 38; embodied practice, 9; emotion, provoking of, 161, 237; erotic, rhetorical alliance with, 69–70, 136; erotic love, likened to, 65, 67; and eternity, 167; ethics, association with, 13; experience of, 161–64; fantasy, and imagination, conflation with, 208; geometry, debt to, 114–15, 117; as gift of God, 44; harmful effects of, 15, 231; and harmony, 4, 157–59, 167–68, 191, 211, 242, 250; haunting quality of, 257; healing pathways of, 219–25, 227–33, 235, 251, 253, 255, 264–67; in human ecology, 5; human voice, 204; humoral theory, 238; and humors, 237–43, 245–47, 251; and imagination, 208–11; interior process of, 193–94;

378  Index music (continued) kinetic energy of, 194, 197, 219, 235, 257; liberal and mechanical knowledge, dichotomy between, 85, 91–92; liberal arts tradition of, 12–13; as liberal science, 92; magic, numerical roots of, 132–34, 136; as manifestation of God, 124, 126; marriage, as metaphor for, 151–53; mathematics, overlapping with, 114, 127, 164; medical manuals and moral philosophies, 14; and medicine, 322n24; and melancholy, 246–47, 249–50, 253–58, 264–65; and memory, 210–11, 224–25; and Mercury, 157; and metaphor, 4, 105–6, 169, 193; as metaphysical, 4, 90; and moderation, 60–61; moralizing balladry, 63; musical miracles, 43; mystery of, 158–60; natural philosophy, place in, 93, 96, 101; notation, 103, 105; numbers, rooted in, 4, 140; and occult, 127; in occult practices, 132; performance practice, as problematic, 58; personal and collective memory, 161; pleasure of, 167; and poetry, 211, 253; positive effects of, 230; power of, 42, 165; praise-­ and-­dispraise exercises, Christian aspect of, 47–48; praise and dispraise of, 76, 85; praise and dispraise of, as literary genre, 60, 75, 164; praise of, 9, 11, 15–16, 40; and proportionality, 4, 155, 163, 165, 191; psychology of, 162–63; psychophysical change, agent of, 161; psychophysical health, maintaining of, 233; rapturous potential of, 71–72; rationality and intellectual self-­discipline, 108–9; reach and significance of, 15; religious principles, expression of, 54; religious ritual, 43; as restorative, 157; and rhetoric, 4, 7, 41–42, 54–55, 64, 66, 74, 82; rhythm of oration, 61; in sacred space, 50–51; as sanguinary, 245; as science, 2; sectarian boundaries, crossing of, 54; secular balladry, 57–58; self-­diagnosis and maintenance, 251; self-­integrity, endangering of, 73; sense and intellect, bridging of, 99–100, 105–6, 112–13, 122, 132–33, 207–8; sight and sound, intersection between, 119–20; and signification, 70, 85, 101, 105; social belonging, 162; social space, creating of, 161; and soul, 198, 204–6, 236–38, 256; speaking of vs. performing, 4; and speculation, 94–97; spirit, concept of, 194–201, 205, 214–15; text, unity of, 188; and theology, 149; as therapeutic force, 221–22; trance states, inducing of, 72; transformative capabilities of, 161–62, 165; universal order, as center of, 165; various effects of, 231; vocal ways of knowing, 19–20, 93–94. See also acoustics; composition; listening; musical instruments; singing; sound musica humana, 192 musica instrumentalis (sounding music), 78, 96– 97, 155, 162, 166–67, 191–92 musical instruments, 56, 61, 65, 91–92, 99, 101, 103, 127, 132, 142, 144, 146, 157, 173, 199, 202–4, 213,

232, 236–38, 251, 256; as divine, representing of, 122, 124, 126, 134; geometrical principles, constructed on, 115; and occult, 200; as signifiers, 120–21. See also individual instruments musical tourism, 4 musica mundana (music of the spheres), 106–8, 138, 192 mysticism, 97 myth, 105; retelling of, 122 Nabbes, Thomas, Microcosmus, 253 natural philosophy, 3, 20, 93, 96, 101, 109, 111, 122, 126, 138–39; and medicine, 223 necromancy, 130 Neoplatonism, 43, 72, 113, 131–32, 172, 196 Netherlands, 250 Newton, Isaac, 113, 131, 136 North, Roger, 213 Northbrooke, John, 60, 169–70 Norton, Thomas, 138; Ordinall of Alchymy, 137 numerology, 3, 128, 138–40 occult sciences, 147, 224, 253; Christian practice, close ties to, 130–31; and concealment, 127; and mathematics, 127; musical instruments, 200–203; and revelation, 129; secrets, suggestion of, 127, 136; and skepticism, 139; textual transmission of, 131–32. See also magic Ornithoparcus, Andreas, 107–8, 168; Micrologus, 109, 111 orpharion, 144. See also alpherion; Rose, John Orpheus, 112, 132, 134, 136, 156, 157, 161, 164 Palfryeman, Thomas, 11 Paracelsus, 130, 132, 223–24 Parker, Matthew, 59 passion, 9, 35, 72, 78, 163, 173, 175, 179, 188, 191, 208–9, 211–12, 215, 218–20, 224–25, 227, 235– 37, 239–42, 245–46, 249, 253, 255–56, 262, 264–65, 267. See also affect; affection; emotion Pathway to Musicke, The, 36 Paul, Saint, 56–57, 68–69 Peacham, Henry, the Elder, 34, 67–69, 75, 105, 119 Peacham, Henry, the Younger, 99–100, 115, 117, 122, 130, 193–94, 200–201, 232, 250, 255; “Melancholia,” 248; melancholy, dramatic personification of, 247; Minerva Britanna, 123, 242–43, 245; “Sanguis,” 244, 245; “Tantó dulcius,” 101, 102, 103 Persia, 128–29 Petrarch, 180 Philips, Katherine, 204; “To my Lucasia, in defense of declared friendship,” 203 Phillips, Edward, 81, 223 Philo, 20 physics, 129 Pickering, Jane, 264

Index  379 Plato, 59, 75, 84–85, 97, 108, 120, 163, 166, 177, 195, 199–200; Timaeus, 113 Platonism, 109, 111, 131–32, 136, 149, 165–66, 235, 256 Playford, Henry, 251, 253, 256 Playford, John, 251, 253, 256; Antidote Against Melancholy, 252 Pliny, 17, 100, 112, 140; Natural History, 111 Plotinus, 113 Plutarch, 17, 44, 113; De Musica, 22–23; Morals, 111 poetics, 2, 126–27 poetry, 32; lyric, 3; and music, 211, 253 Politeuphuia, 1 Poole, Josua, 74; Helpe to English Poesie, 163 Porta, Giambattista della, 130, 132 Praise of Musicke, The, 7, 9–11, 12–13, 15, 17, 24, 36, 41–42, 44, 47, 50–51, 53, 55–56, 58, 60, 72–74, 85, 108–9, 111–12, 151, 166, 177, 227–30, 240–41, 250–51, 255, 265; musical miracles, 43 predestination, 137, 140 Prester John, 51 Proclus, 97 proportionality, 108, 148; and music, 4, 138, 163, 165, 191 Prynne, William, 17 psalms, 15, 17, 45, 47–48, 54, 56–57, 76, 227, 234, 254, 263, 265 Ptolemy, 113 Purcell, Henry, 192 Purchase, Samuel, 94 Pythagoras, 90–91, 97, 109, 114, 117, 121–22, 131–32, 140, 165–66, 195, 199–200, 256; auditory cognition, 111; cosmology of, 111, 141; and proportionality, 138; universal harmony, model of, 108, 111–12; and zodiac, 141 Pythagoreanism, 105, 111–13, 126, 164 Quarles, Francis, 122; Emblemes, 109, 110, 111 Quintilian, 12, 26 Ralegh, Walter, 130, 140 Ramus, Petrus, 33 Ravenscroft, Thomas, 19–23, 94–95, 210, 245, 266–67; A Briefe Discourse of the true (but neglected) Use of Charact’ring the Degrees, 24, 72, 231; Whole Booke of Psalmes, 254 Read, Alexander, 172, 191 reading, 30; contradictory authorities, navigating of, 27–28; as creative process, 26; importance of, 25; selection of material, 28; speech and writing, continuous with, 29 Recorde, Robert, 92, 94, 97, 294n17 recorder, 146 Reformation, 12, 23, 35, 55, 57–58, 129–30, 149, 198 Reisch, Gregor, 207; “De potentiis anime sensitive” (“Of the Powers of the Sensitive Soul”), 205–6, 206 religio, 4

Restoration, 54, 85, 103, 106, 114, 121, 160 Reynolds, Henry, Mythomystes, 112 rhetoric, 9–12, 15, 23, 28, 30, 33–34, 37–38, 57–58, 63, 65, 67, 70, 79, 81; and logic, 35; manuals of, 75; and music, 4, 7, 41–42, 54–55, 64, 66, 74, 82 Robinson, Thomas, 148–49, 219; The Schoole of Musicke, 24, 168, 224 Rogers, Daniel, 150–51; Matrimoniall Honour, 153 Rollenhagen, Gabriel, 38 Rome, 51, 128–29 Romei, Annibale, 96–98 Rose, John, 144; orpharion, 145 Rosseter, Philip, 253 Russell, Lucy (Harrington). See Bedford, Countess of (Lucy [Harrington] Russell) sacred music, 43–44, 48, 51, 53–54, 130–31; popular drama, 49; power of words, link to, 56 Salmon, Thomas, 105–6, 124; An Essay to the Advancement of Musick, 103, 104 Sandys, George, 199 Sanford, James, 13 sanguine, 150, 238–43, 245–47 Saturn, 246, 249 Saul, 164, 235, 246, 256 Scholastics, 205 science, 13, 15, 20–22, 36–38, 68, 94, 128, 137, 171, 224; and art, 91–92, 115; and magic, 4 scientia, 4 Scotland, 122 secrets, 23, 95, 97, 99, 127, 130–31, 136, 138, 141, 147, 157–59, 195, 200. See also occult sciences “Sermon of the Place and Time of Prayer,” 52–53 sermons, 35 sexuality, 65, 68; ecstasy, concept of, 71–72; as force, trope of, 71; and music, 153; rape metaphors, 71; self-­control, loss of, 71. See also gender Shakespeare, William, 3, 49, 59, 67, 70, 105–7, 170, 191; As You Like It, 263; Cymbeline, 69–70; Hamlet, 69; Macbeth, 69; Merchant of Venice, 89–91, 93–94, 153, 160–65, 170, 192, 194, 197; Othello, 69, 245; Richard II, 1–2; Romeo and Juliet, 1–2, 210; Sonnet 128, 189–90; Tempest, 304–5n153; Twelfth Night, 214–16 shalmes. See shawm shawm, 230 Short, Peter, 1–2 Sidney, Philip, 32, 251, 264 Simpson, Christopher, 111, 120–21, 214; Compendium of Practical Musick, 170, 213 Simson, Archibald, Heptameron, The Seven Dayes, 122, 124 singing, 17, 24, 45, 52, 67, 79, 119, 178, 179, 228–30, 232; spiritual advantages of, 233–34 Smith, Bruce, 3 Smith, Henry, 100, 150

380  Index solemn feasts, 50–51 songs, 31–32, 45, 47, 57, 59, 61, 76, 94–95, 135–36, 141, 172, 197, 199–200, 204, 212, 230–31, 241, 245, 251, 253, 256, 263–64; as accessible, 244; consort songs, 19, 48; of erotic love, 243; lute songs, 14, 193; marriage songs, 69; part-­songs, 24, 48, 85, 267; as sacred songs, 48, 58; spiritual songs, 56, 84; as utilitarian, 266 sound, 3, 12, 17–21, 23, 37–38, 52, 59, 61, 63–64, 74, 85, 101, 103, 107, 119–20, 124, 133, 147–48, 158, 160, 163, 175–76, 178, 188, 190–91, 193–94, 200–201, 211–12, 240; erotic, rhetorical alliance with, 70, 189; and imagination, 210; and memory, 210; and motion, 173, 199; physical nature of, 162, 171–72; power of, 170; processing of, 174; psychological nature of, 164–66; response, provoking of, 67, 166; as spirit, 195, 197, 214; and vibration, 167 Spain, 50 Spencer, John, 198 spirit, 21, 57, 69, 72, 97, 147, 150; animal spirit, 206, 211; concept of, 195–97; and soul, 205 spirit beings, 120, 134, 136, 146, 159 spirits, 16, 32, 75, 160–61, 164, 188, 193–95, 198–204, 207, 209, 212, 214–15, 220, 222, 227–30, 235, 237, 254, 256, 265–66; memory, link to, 210 spiritual experience, 42, 68, 70, 82–83, 90, 131, 167–68, 172, 177, 191, 233, 246 spirituality, 192 Steinberg, Michael P., 257 Stepney, John, 49–50, 52–53 Stoics, 196 Stuart, Elizabeth (princess), 209 Stuart era, 2, 127, 146 Stubbes, Philip, 16–17, 36, 64–68, 70, 74, 250; The Anatomie of Abuses, 13–14, 62–63 superstition, 129 Surphlet, Richard, 167 Sydenham, Henry, 38, 173, 175, 188, 191 Sylvester, Josuah, 239 sympathy, 121, 138, 144, 192, 194, 199–205, 212, 214, 218, 220, 235–36, 256 synesthesia, 117, 174–75, 207, 215 Synopsis of Vocal Music (treatise), 204 Tallis, Thomas, 18, 20, 59 tavern songs, 57–58 Temperley, Nicholas, 283n10 temporality, 129 theorbo, 103, 109, 120 theurgy, 130 Timmers, Renee, 257 Tomkins, Thomas, 72, 77–80, 82–85; “Above the Stars my Saviour Dwells,” 73; “Musicke Devine,” 80, 81, 82, 83, 84; Songs of 3. 4. 5. and 6. Parts, 76 Tomlinson, Gary, 3 Topsell, Edward, 69–70

travel, 2, 23, 50–51 Trelcatius, Lucas, Common Places of Divinity, 75 Trethowan, W. H., 257 Trevelyon, Thomas, 45, 47–48, 92–94, 114; Pictorial Commonplace Book, 93; “Syngyng men,” 46 trumpet, 164, 227, 230–31, 264–65 Tudor era, 2, 17, 54, 85, 95, 127 Turner, Robert, 130 van der Noot, Jan, 115 Vaughan, Thomas, 147 Vaughan, William, 208, 214; Golden-­grove, 95–96 Venice, 50–51, 72 Venus, 142–44, 146 Vermigli, Peter Martyr, 44–45, 60; Common Places, 71 viol, 92, 103, 111, 121, 133, 148, 157, 200, 203, 212–13 violin, 120, 157 Virgil, 17–18 virginals, 189, 241, 251, 262 Walkington, Thomas, 195, 214, 238, 241–42 Wallis, John, 211–12 Watson, Thomas, 11, 14, 23, 32; “A gratification unto Master John Case . . . ,” 7–9, 25, 77 Watts, William, 70 Weelkes, Thomas, 188; “The Andelusian Merchant,” 178, 184, 185–87, 185, 186, 187; Ayeres or Phantasticke Spirites for three voices, 212; Balletts and Madrigals to Five Voyces, 16; “Thule, the Period of Cosmographie,” 178–79, 179, 180, 181–83, 181, 182, 183 Wells, Robin Headlam, 144 White, Nicholas, 23 Whythorne, Thomas, 18–19, 94; Songes, for five voyces, 14–15; Songes, for three fower and five voyces, 56 Wilkins, John, 250 Wilkinson, Robert, 69–70 Willis, Jonathan, 49 Wilson, Thomas, 34 Winkler, Amanda Eubanks, 3, 146 Wirsung, Christoph, 249, 262 Wisdom, Gregory, 134 witchcraft, 72, 74, 132; dramatic representations of, 135 witch trials, 135 Wither, George, 38, 40, 56, 254; A Collection of Emblemes, Ancient and Moderne, 38–39; “Musica serva Dei,” 39 Wotton, Henry, 117 Wright, Leonard, 147–48, 164–66, 169; “Of Musicke,” 237 Wright, Thomas, 15, 21, 58, 173, 175, 235–37, 254–55, 264; Passions of the Minde in Generall, 33 Zarlino, Gioseffo, 259; Istitutioni harmoniche, 14, 121