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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=457250" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>To The Countess Of Exeter. Playing On The Lute</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">What charms you have, from what high race you sprung,<br>Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:<br>Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ <br>Of Ca'ndish' beauty, join'd to Cecil's wit.<br>But when you please to show the labouring muse<br>What greater theme your music can produce,<br>My babbling praises I repeat no more,<br>But hear, rejoice, stand silent, and adore.<br>The Persians thus, first gazing on the sun,<br>Admired how high 'twas placed, how bright it shone;<br>But as his power was known their thoughts were raised,<br>And soon they worshipp'd what at first they praised.<br>Eliza's glory lives in Spenser's song,<br>And Cowley's verse keeps fair Orinda young;<br>That as in birth and beauty you excel,<br>The muse might dictate and the poet tell:<br>Your art no other art can speak; and you <br>To show how well you play, must play anew:<br>Your music's power your music must disclose,<br>For what light is 'tis only light that shows.<br>Strange force of harmony that thus controls<br>Our thoughts, and turns and sanctifies our souls. <br>While with its utmost art your sex could move <br>Our wonder only or at best our love,<br>You far above both these your god did place,<br>That your high power might worldly thoughts destroy,<br>That with your numbers you our zeal might raise,<br>And like himself communicate your joy. <br>When to your native heaven you shall repair,<br>And with your presence crown the blessings there,<br>Your lute may wind its strings but little higher<br>To tune their notes to that immortal quire.<br>Your art is perfect here; your numbers do<br>More than our books make the rude atheist know<br>That there's a heaven by what he hears below. <br>As in some piece while Luke his skill exprest,<br>A cunning angel came and drew the rest,<br>So when you play, some godhead does impart<br>Harmonious aid; divinity helps art;<br>Some cherub finishes what you begun, <br>And to a miracle improves a tune.<br>To burning Rome when frantic Nero play'd,<br>Viewing that face, no more he had survey'd<br>The raging flames, but, struck with strange surprise,<br>Confess'd them less than those of Anna's eyes;<br>But, had he heard thy lute, he soon had found<br>His rage eluded and his crime atoned:<br>Thine, like Amphion's hand, had waked the stone<br>And from destruction call'd the rising town;<br>Malice to music had been forced to yield,<br>Nor could he burn so fast as thou couldst build.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Matthew+Prior">Matthew Prior</a><div class=q>
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Have been the pleasing subjects of my song:
Unskill'd and young, yet something still I writ 
Of Ca'ndish' beauty, join'd to Cecil's wit.
But when you please to show the labouring muse
What grea..."></div>
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