En.Citatepedia^®.ro

On The Soft And Gentle Motions Of Eudora

Divine Thalia strike th' Harmonious Lute,
But with a Stroke so Gentle as may sute
The silent gliding of the Howers,
Or yet the calmer growth of Flowers;
Th' ascending or the falling Dew,
Which none can see, though all find true.
For thus alone,
Can be shewn,
How downie, how smooth,
Eudora doth Move,
How Silken her Actions appear,
The Aire of her Face,
Of a gentler Grace
Then those that do stroke the Eare.
Her Address so sweet,
So Modestly Meet,

That 'tis not the Lowd though Tuneable String,
Can shewforth so soft, so Noyseless a Thing!
O This to express from thy Hand must fall,
Then Musicks self, something more Musical.

poem by Anne Killigrew
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On A Hill

feeling myself on a hill,
over grown with white jasmines,
all about clouds looking radiant with sunlight but still.
near flowered covered window lied a lute,
breeze blows, strike against string of lute,
slow produce sweet and soft sound,
travelling on gentle breezes to the fairy land i am bound.
breezes sing melodies, like silent
motionless air, from morning to noon,
i see the rising and shining of the moon.
idle fancies pass through my lazy mind,
beauty of sunbeams dancing like diamonds.

poem by Jais Mani
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To His Lute

My lute, be as thou wert when thou didst grow
With thy green mother in some shady grove,
When immelodious winds but made thee move,
And birds their ramage did on thee bestow.
Since that dear Voice which did thy sounds approve,
Which wont in such harmonious strains to flow,
Is reft from Earth to tune those spheres above,
What art thou but a harbinger of woe?
Thy pleasing notes be pleasing notes no more,
But orphans' wailings to the fainting ear;
Each stroke a sigh, each sound draws forth a tear;
For which be silent as in woods before:
Or if that any hand to touch thee deign,
Like widowed turtle, still her loss complain.

poem by William Henry Drummond
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How Can Love Be So Kind?

my right hand holds the essence
of my being

i do not have to fight it again
your soft hands shall gently touch it

stroke it like it were a gentle dog
a fine feathered bird

and then we kiss, we kiss,
we are on our own now mapping out

where true happiness lies
just us, tonight, under the blackness of this night

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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An Eare-Stringe

'Tis vayne to add a ring or gemme,
Your eare itselfe outpasseth them.

When idle words are passing here,
I warne and pull you by the eare.

This silken chayne stands wayting here
For golden tongues to tye on there.

Here silken twynes, there locks you see--
Now tell me which the softer bee?

poem by William Strode
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A Apostacy Of One, And But One Lady

I.
That frantick errour I adore,
And am confirm'd the earth turns round;
Now satisfied o're and o're,
As rowling waves, so flowes the ground,
And as her neighbour reels the shore:
Finde such a woman says she loves;
She's that fixt heav'n, which never moves.

II.
In marble, steele, or porphyrie,
Who carves or stampes his armes or face,
Lookes it by rust or storme must dye:
This womans love no time can raze,
Hardned like ice in the sun's eye,
Or your reflection in a glasse,
Which keepes possession, though you passe.

III.
We not behold a watches hand
To stir, nor plants or flowers to grow;
Must we infer that this doth stand,
And therefore, that those do not blow?
This she acts calmer, like Heav'ns brand,
The stedfast lightning, slow loves dart,
She kils, but ere we feele the smart.

IV.
Oh, she is constant as the winde,
That revels in an ev'nings aire!
Certaine as wayes unto the blinde,
More reall then her flatt'ries are;
Gentle as chaines that honour binde,
More faithfull then an Hebrew Jew,
But as the divel not halfe so true.

poem by Richard Lovelace
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Stroke One

Head throbbing
Heart pumping
Neck stiffens hard
Cannot move forward
Vision now doubles
Hearing inaudible
Everything's white
Something wrong with sight
What can be done
When it's Stroke One...
Beep beep the monitor
Out goes the doctor
'She will survive'
(I'm still alive!)
Bless this good child
The stroke was mild
Of symptoms, none
Sneaky Stroke One
So if I misspell
It's my eyes, they aren't well.
(How are the two of you?)

poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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Night's Breath

I'm the night you prepare for
with a soothing bath
as a lover does
with lavender scents
brushed hair
and anticipations.

I am your ebony dark
under the covers-
you and I snow-angel spread-
Anticipation's blooming
as I stroke your gentle face
our breaths slowing rising
as I pillow soft
slide down
beside you.

Blinding day is banished
as I your true companion
linger deep inside you
where true intimacy resides.

Where I
vampire like
stroke your nape

drinking deeply
of your trembling
secret needs;
inhaling all tension and sorrow too some days.

I am your sensual,
sunless companion

the one who's there

to escort you to dreamy unconsciousness

which precedes the dream portal.

I am the last one after the day's exhaustings;

the first to kiss you
in your soul garden
where our intimacy roses bloom.

I'm the blanket against the cold
the only witness to your pleasure dome
the only witness sometimes as you plow your sorrow fields.

I'm there in your dark, soft reclinings,
always there then
it's just you and I
and my ebony
clinging together
in our nights
bride and groom
secretly wed.

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Upon A Little Lady

Under the Discipline of an Excellent Person.
I.
How comes the Day orecast? the Flaming Sun
Darkn'd at Noon, as if his Course were run?
He never rose more proud, more glad, more gay,
Ne're courted Daphne with a brighter Ray!
And now in Clouds he wraps his Head,
As if not Daphne, but himself were dead!
And all the little Winged Troop
Forbear to sing, and sit and droop;
The Flowers do languish on their Beds,
And fading hang their Mourning Heads;
The little Cupids discontented, shew,
In Grief and Rage one breaks his Bow,
An other tares his Cheeks and Haire,
A third sits blubring in Despaire,

Confessing though, in Love, he be,
A Powerful, Dreadful Deitie,
A Child, in Wrath, can do as much as he!
Whence is this Evil hurl'd,
On all the sweetness of the World?
Among those Things with Beauty shine,
(Both Humane natures, and Divine)
There was not so much sorrow spi'd,
No, not that Day the sweet Adonis died!

II.
Ambitious both to know the Ill, and to partake,
The little Weeping Gods I thus bespake.
Ye Noblest Pow'rs and Gentlest that Above,
Govern us Men, but govern still with Love,
Vouchsafe to tell, what can that Sorrow be,
Disorders Heaven, and wounds a Deitie.
My Prayer not spoken out,
One of the Winged Rout,
With Indignation great,
Sprung from his Airie-Seat,
And mounting to a Higher Cloud,
With Thunder, or a Voice as loud

Cried, Mortal there, there seek the Grief o'th' Gods,
Where thou findst Plagues, and their revengeful Rods!
And in the Instant that the Thing was meant,
He bent his Bow, his Arrow plac't, and to the mark it sent!
I follow'd with my watchful Eye,
To the Place where the Shaft did flie,
But O unheard-of Prodigy.
It was retorted back again,
And he that sent it, felt the pain,
Alas! I think the little God was therewith slain!
But wanton Darts ne're pierce where Honours found,
And those that shoot them, do their own Breasts wound.

III.
The Place from which the Arrow did return,
Swifter then sent, and with the speed did burn,
Was a Proud Pile which Marble Columnes bare,
Tarrast beneath, and open to the Aire,
On either side, Cords of wove Gold did tie
A purfl'd Curtain, hanging from on high,
To clear the Prospect of the stately Bower,
And boast the Owners Dignity and Power!
This shew'd the Scene from whence Loves grief arose,
And Heaven and Nature both did discompose,

A little Nymph whose Limbs divinely bright,
Lay like a Body of Collected Light,
But not to Love and Courtship so disclos'd,
But to the Rigour of a Dame oppos'd,
Who instant on the Faire with Words and Blows,
Now chastens Error, and now Virtue shews.

IV.
But O thou no less Blind,
Than Wild and Savage Mind,
Who Discipline dar'st name,
Thy Outrage and thy shame,
And hop'st a Radiant Crown to get
All Stars and Glory to thy Head made fit,
Know that this Curse alone shall Serpent-like incircle it!
May'st thou henceforth, be ever seen to stand,
Grasping a Scourge of Vipers in thy Hand,
Thy Hand, that Furie like—But see!
By Apollos Sacred Tree,
By his ever Tuneful Lyre,
And his bright Image the Eternal Fire,
Eudoras she has done this Deed
And made the World thus in its Darling bleed!

I know the Cruel Dame,
Too well instructed by my Flame!
But see her shape! But see her Face!
In her Temple such is Diana's Grace!
Behold her Lute upon the Pavement lies,
When Beautie's wrong'd, no wonder Musick dies!

V.
What blood of Centaurs did thy Bosom warme,
And boyle the Balsome there up to a Storme?
Nay Balsome flow'd not with so soft a Floud,
As thy Thoughts Evenly Virtuous, Mildly Good!
How could thy Skilful and Harmonious Hand,
That Rage of Seas, and People could command,
And calme Diseases with the Charming strings,
Such Discords make in the whole Name of Things?
But now I see the Root of thy Rash Pride,
Because thou didst Excel the World beside,
And it in Beauty and in Fame out-shine,
Thou would'st compare thy self to things Divine!
And 'bove thy Standard what thou there didst see,
Thou didst Condemn, because 'twas unlike thee,
And punisht in the Lady as unfit,
What Bloomings were of a Diviner Wit.
Divine she is, or else Divine must be,
A Borne or else a Growing Deitie!

VI.
While thus I did exclaime,
And wildly rage and blame,
Behold the Sylvan-Quire
Did all at one conspire,
With shrill and cheerful Throats,
T'assume their chirping Notes;
The Heav'ns refulgent Eye
Dance't in the clear'd-up Skie,
And so triumphant shon,
As seven-days Beams he had on!
The little Loves burn'd with nobler fier
Each chang'd his wanton Bow, and took a Lyre,
Singing chast Aires unto the tuneful strings,
And time'd soft Musick with their downy Wings.
I turn'd the little Nymph to view,
She singing and did smiling shew;
Eudora led a heav'nly strain,
Her Angels Voice did eccho it again!

I then decreed no Sacriledge was wrought,
But neerer Heav'n this Piece of Heaven was brought.
She also brighter seem'd, than she had been,
Vertue darts forth a Light'ning 'bove the Skin.
Eudora also shew'd as heretofore,
When her soft Graces I did first adore.
I saw, what one did Nobly Will,
The other sweetly did fulfil;
Their Actions all harmoniously did sute,
And she had only tun'd the Lady like her Lute.

poem by Anne Killigrew
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The Chain I Gave: From The Turkish

The chain I gave was fair to view,
The lute I added sweet in sound;
The heart that offer'd both was true,
And ill deserved the fate it found.

These gifts were charm'd by secret spell,
Thy truth in absence to divine;
And they have done their duty well,
Alas! they could not teach the thine.

That chain was firm in every link,
But not to bear a stranger's touch;
That lute was sweet, till thou could'st think
In other hands its notes were such.

Let him who from thy neck unbound
The chain which shiver'd in his grasp,
Who saw that lute refuse to sound,
Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

When thou wert changed, they alter'd too;
The chain is broke, the music mute.
'Tis past, to them and thee adieu
False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

poem by Byron
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Divine Justice Amiable

Thou hast no lightnings, O thou Just!
Or I their force should know;
And, if thou strike me into dust,
My soul approves the blow.

The heart, that values less its ease
Than it adores thy ways,
In thine avenging anger sees
A subject of its praise.

Pleased I could lie, concealed and lost,
In shades of central night;
Not to avoid thy wrath, thou know'st,
But lest I grieve thy sight.

Smite me, O thou, whom I provoke!
And I will love thee still:
The well deserved and righteous stroke
Shall please me, though it kill.

Am I not worthy to sustain
The worst thou canst devise;
And dare I seek thy throne again,
And meet thy sacred eyes?

Far from afflicting, thou art kind;
And, in my saddest hours,
An unction of thy grace I find,
Pervading all my powers.

Alas! thou sparest me yet again;
And, when thy wrath should move,
Too gentle to endure my pain,
Thou soothest me with thy love.

I have no punishment to fear;
But, ah! that smile from thee
Imparts a pang far more severe
Than woe itself would be.

poem by William Cowper
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Unanswered Questions

Its time for me to go.
This you must know.
I need to leave.
Just let me please.
I need to find my own way.
Don't worry, I'll be back some day.
On that last stroke of midnight,
when the moons shins so bright.
That's when I'll return.
But there are things I need to learn.
Questions need answers too.
This is true.
Why do I let him toy with my heart?
Why do I let my world fall apart?
Why do I keep falling for him with every smile?
Why do I stay around for a while?
I need to know these things right now!
Before I take my final bow!
Goodbye my old friend,
I'm afraid this is where our chapter shall end.

poem by Alice Spakrs
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Wings Of Silk

In a flight of silken silence
Wings of velvet stroke
Pinions soft as melted butter
With touch as light as smoke

Huge bright eyes of earthen brown
Ne'er ceasing to peer around
To perceive the vole's
most minute sound

Then… as if a ghostly
Downy dart
Wings of silk
Spread wide apart

A muted squeak
Stop'd short in surprise
And from the snow
Doth feathered phantom rise

Then talons spread
Returns to lurch
Onto it's branch
Upon which to perch

And ‘neath the branch
Said vole will soon to fall
Snug again…wrap't tight within
It's very own fur-ball

poem by David Whalen
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Pink Thing

Anytime you rise, Im here,
And Im crazy for you pink thing.
You make me want to laugh,
You make me want to cry,
When I stroke your head I feel a hundred heartbeats high,
Pink thing.
I want to take you out and show you round the world,
Pink thing itll be ok.
If I could only wake you from your slumber curled,
Pink thing what would straight folks say?
That man isnt fit to enter heaven.
That man is a sinner,
Ever burning in disgrace.
Pink thing, spit in my face,
Id love you for it.
Anytime you call, Ill fall,
Into madness for you pink thing.
You make me want to live.
You make me want to die.
And when I stroke your head I feel a hundred heartbeats high,
Pink thing.
I want to take you out and show you to the girls,
Pink thing theyre a whole new tribe.
If you could only see the way the way the gingham swirls,
Pink thing its a whole new vibe.
That man isnt fit to be a father.
That man is a sinner,
fore they cast me down to die,
Pink thing, spit in my eye,
Id love you for it.
Yes, Id love you for it.
Anytime you rise, Im here,
And Im crazy for you pink thing.
You make me want to laugh,
You make me want to cry,
When I stroke your head I feel a hundred heartbeats high,
Pink thing.
Hundred heartbeats high,
Pink thing.
Hundred heartbeats high.
I want to introduce you,
Take you to the brink thing.
I want to introduce you,
Tell me what you think thing. I want to introduce you,
Make that missing link thing.
Dont you think its time you met some female pink thing?
You make me want to laugh,
You make me want to cry,
So why is it Im happy when theres tears down in your eye?
Little pink thing.

song performed by by Xtc
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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First Love

lucky age
at least
now it leaves
a space
to remember
first love
for romantic verses
this age
young girls
and boys
senses triumph
over love
the old days
it took months
for that first letter
to be written
today, the bedroom
for courting
is just days away
from that first meet
the more adventurous ones
took liberty on first meet
exploring each other
the way a blind man
makes out his way
on the street
lucky age
i was born in
the pauses,
the rapt intermission
in a piece of music
the door to someone's heart
always gentle as the flower blooms

First Love
I ne'er was struck before that hour
With love so sudden and so sweet,
Her face it bloomed like a sweet flower
And stole my heart away complete.
My face turned pale as deadly pale.
My legs refused to walk away,
And when she looked, what could I ail?
My life and all seemed turned to clay.
And then my blood rushed to my face
And took my eyesight quite away,
The trees and bushes round the place
Seemed midnight at noonday.
I could not see a single thing,
Words from my eyes did start -
They spoke as chords do from the string,
And blood burnt round my heart.
Are flowers the winter's choice?
Is love's bed always snow?
She seemed to hear my silent voice,
Not love's appeals to know.
I never saw so sweet a face
As that I stood before.
My heart has left its dwelling-place
And can return no more

poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Holy Spirit Divine Descend

Holy Spirit Divine descend
Come and take pre-eminence
Move in an unusual fashion
Like on the day of Pentecost
Descend Holy spirit Divine descend

We are gathered in your name
Together to sing your praises
To express our thankfulness
At your throne of Grace

We are gathered in your name
Together to make our supplication
And bring our burdens
To the throne of Grace

We are gathered in your name
Humbly requesting your blessing
Showers of divine blessings
From the throne of Grace

We are gathered in your name
Anxiously seeking your face
Believing to access favours
From your throne of Grace

We are gathered in your name
Honestly faithful in you
Trusting we shall be set freed
At your throne of Grace

We are gathered in your name
Keenly waiting on you
Hoping to renew our strength
At the throne of Grace

We are gathered in your name
Candidly unwavering in our trust
Convinced to be spiritually re-fueled
At the throne of Grace

poem by Emmanuel Oduro
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Dead Robin

The inadvertent fact of a robin
Carelessly snapping its back on a glass bus shelter
Is not a major tragedy of epic proportions.

Nevertheless, today there has been a death,
Two beautiful slender legs
Are crossed, a demure crucifix of twigs.
Tail feathers, folded away
Like ironed packing.

The small red body nestles in my hand
A cold flame
Fragile as an egg.

I do not want to bury it.
I do not want to draw earth's curtain over its closed face.
This delicate two-winged coffin.

I stroke and stroke the fiery breast
The light brown back
Turning it round and round like a roasting spit,
Regret its fading essences
Its lightness and its grace

Its softly thudding heartbeat
Has sunk without a trace
Into a sealed silence.

Over morning smells of toast and tea
I have read columns of obituaries
Black lists of names on thin cheap paper
My eyes dusted the dead as lightly as swatting a fly
But today one of the winged ones
Has tumbled from the sky
And I may stroke and stroke that small stilled throat
But cannot stir one feather with my gentling.

poem by Sheena Blackhall
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I have learnt to love beyond the beauty...

I have learnt to love beyond the beauty...
Face to face...
My eyes wonder...
Art shone in magnificence of range...
Merry face, fair and bright...
Solemn, serene, earnest eyes...
Long and crafted nose leaning down like a tower on the face
Yet some with charm and royal grace...
Ponder I faces that change...
Could restless heart connect to those beauties, to those charms?
Captivating to eyes so, leaves a fade impression on my heart...
My senses and sensibilities shall fall to praise to thy craft fine...
Finished with perfection…
Your brush that sways on the divinity of souls
Brushed off some divine dust at your last stroke...

poem by Lama Abbas
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The King Of Love My Shepherd Is...

True love is like a lantern's light that guides by night and day.
It's fancy free, it's bold and bright, it's there to lead the way.
True love is like the falling snow that settles on the ground...
To shed abroad its magic glow, both here and all around.
True love is like a rainbow's arc that follows Summer's rain
And in our hearts it leaves its mark - God's promise once again.
True love is like a newborn star, the Universe to bless -
Its shining shimmers near and far, God's glory to express.
True love is like a dolphin's grin that's full of joys sublime,
That's free from sorrow, pain and sin, content to take its time...
True love is like a lightning strike, a spectacle and more,
A dynamo upon a bike with power still in store.
True love is Christmas, Easter, too... It's Pentecost and now.
True love is me! True love is you! Let's show God's love somehow!
True love is like your sweetheart's smile and in the laughter shared,
In twinkling eyes meant to beguile each time you stopped and stared.
True love is like a gentle breeze that softly passes by
And in that passing, grants you peace, then leaves you with a sigh...
True love is like God's warm embrace, as soft as angels' wings.
If you love God, receive His grace: Lord Jesus! King of Kings!

poem by Denis Martindale
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Cloris Charmes

Dissolved by EUDORA.
Not that thy Fair Hand
Should lead me from my deep Dispaire,
Or thy Love, Cloris, End my Care,
And back my Steps command :
But if hereafter thou Retire,
To quench with Tears, thy Wandring Fire,
This Clue I'll leave behinde,
By which thou maist untwine
The Saddest Way,
To shun the Day,
That ever Grief did find.

First take thy Hapless Way
Along the Rocky Northern Shore,
Infamous for the Matchless Store
Of Wracks within that Bay.
None o're the Cursed Beach e're crost,
Unless the Robb'd, the Wrack'd, or Lost
Where on the Strand lye spread,
The Sculls of many Dead.
Their mingl'd Bones,
Among the Stones,
Thy Wretched Feet must tread.
The Trees along the Coast,
Stretch forth to Heaven their blasted Arms,
As if they plaind the North-winds harms,
And Youthful Verdure lost.
There stands a Grove of Fatal Ewe,
Where Sun nere pierc't, nor Wind ere blew.
In it a Brooke doth fleet,
The Noise must guide thy Feet,

For there's no Light,
But all is Night,
And Darkness that you meet.
Follow th' Infernal Wave,
Until it spread into a Floud,
Poysoning the Creatures of the Wood,
There twice a day a Slave,
I know not for what Impious Thing,
Bears thence the Liquor of that Spring.
It adds to the sad Place,
To hear how at each Pace,
He curses God,
Himself, his Load,
For such his Forlorn Case.
Next make no Noyse, nor talk,
Until th' art past a Narrow Glade,
Where Light does only break the Shade;
'Tis a Murderers Walk.
Observing this thou need'st not fear,
He sleeps the Day or Wakes elsewhere.

Though there's no Clock or Chime,
The Hour he did his Crime,
His Soul awakes,
His Conscience quakes
And warns him that's the Time.
Thy Steps must next advance,
Where Horrour, Sin, and Spectars dwell,
Where the Woods Shade seems turn'd Hell,
Witches here Nightly Dance,
And Sprights joyn with them when they call,
The Murderer dares not view the Ball.
For Snakes and Toads conspire,
To make them up a Quire.
And for their Light,
And Torches bright,
The Fiends dance all on fire.
Press on till thou descrie
Among the Trees sad, gastly, wan,
Thinne as the Shadow of a Man,
One that does ever crie,

She is not; and she ne're will be,
Despair and Death come swallow me,
Leave him; and keep thy way,
No more thou now canst stray
Thy Feet do stand,
In Sorrows Land,
It's Kingdomes every way.
Here Gloomy Light will shew
Reard like a Castle to the Skie,
A Horrid Cliffe there standing nigh
Shading a Creek below.
In which Recess there lies a Cave,
Dreadful as Hell, still as the Grave.
Sea-Monsters there abide,
The coming of the Tide,
No Noise is near,
To make them fear,
God-sleep might there reside.

But when the Boysterous Seas,
With Roaring Waves resumes this Cell,
You'd swear the Thunders there did dwell.
So lowd he makes his Plea;
So Tempests bellow under ground,
And Ecchos multiply the Sound!
This is the place I chose,
Changeable like my Woes,
Now calmly Sad,
Then Raging Mad,
As move my Bitter Throwes.
Such Dread besets this Part,
That all the Horrour thou hast past,
Are but Degrees to This at last.
The sight must break thy Heart :
Here Bats and Owles that hate the Light
Fly and enjoy Eternal Night.
Scales of Serpents, Fish-bones,
Th' Adders Eye, and Toad-stones,
Are all the Light,
Hath blest my Sight,
Since first began my Groans.

When thus I lost the Sense,
Of all the heathful World calls Bliss,
And held it Joy, those Joys to miss,
When Beauty was Offence :
Celestial Strains did read the Aire,
Shaking these Mansions of Despaire;
A Form Divine and bright,
Stroke Day through all that Night
As when Heav'ns Queen
In Hell was seen,
With wonder and affright!
The Monsters fled for fear,
The Terrors of the Cursed Wood
Dismantl'd were, and where they stood,
No longer did appear.
The Gentle Pow'r, which wrought this thing,
Eudora was, who thus did sing.
Dissolv'd is Cloris spell,
From whence thy Evils fell,
Send her this Clue,
'Tis there most due
And thy Phantastick Hell.

poem by Anne Killigrew
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To A Lady That Desired Me I Would Beare My Part With Her In A Song Madam A. L.

This is the prittiest motion:
Madam, th' alarums of a drumme
That cals your lord, set to your cries,
To mine are sacred symphonies.

What, though 'tis said I have a voice;
I know 'tis but that hollow noise
Which (as it through my pipe doth speed)
Bitterns do carol through a reed;
In the same key with monkeys jiggs,
Or dirges of proscribed piggs,
Or the soft Serenades above
In calme of night, when cats make love.

Was ever such a consort seen!
Fourscore and fourteen with forteen?
Yet sooner they'l agree, one paire,
Then we in our spring-winter aire;
They may imbrace, sigh, kiss, the rest:
Our breath knows nought but east and west.
Thus have I heard to childrens cries
The faire nurse still such lullabies,
That, well all sayd (for what there lay),
The pleasure did the sorrow pay.

Sure ther's another way to save
Your phansie, madam; that's to have
('Tis but a petitioning kinde fate)
The organs sent to Bilingsgate,
Where they to that soft murm'ring quire
Shall teach you all you can admire!
Or do but heare, how love-bang Kate
In pantry darke for freage of mate,
With edge of steele the square wood shapes,
And DIDO to it chaunts or scrapes.
The merry Phaeton oth' carre
You'l vow makes a melodious jarre;
Sweeter and sweeter whisleth He
To un-anointed axel-tree;
Such swift notes he and 's wheels do run;
For me, I yeeld him Phaebus son.
Say, faire Comandres, can it be
You should ordaine a mutinie?
For where I howle, all accents fall,
As kings harangues, to one and all.

Ulisses art is now withstood:
You ravish both with sweet and good;
Saint Syren, sing, for I dare heare,
But when I ope', oh, stop your eare.

Far lesse be't aemulation
To passe me, or in trill or tone,
Like the thin throat of Philomel,
And the smart lute who should excell,
As if her soft cords should begin,
And strive for sweetnes with the pin.

Yet can I musick too; but such
As is beyond all voice or touch;
My minde can in faire order chime,
Whilst my true heart still beats the time;
My soule['s] so full of harmonie,
That it with all parts can agree;
If you winde up to the highest fret,
It shall descend an eight from it,
And when you shall vouchsafe to fall,
Sixteene above you it shall call,
And yet, so dis-assenting one,
They both shall meet in unison.

Come then, bright cherubin, begin!
My loudest musick is within.
Take all notes with your skillfull eyes;
Hearke, if mine do not sympathise!
Sound all my thoughts, and see exprest
The tablature of my large brest;
Then you'l admit, that I too can
Musick above dead sounds of man;
Such as alone doth blesse the spheres,
Not to be reacht with humane eares.

poem by Richard Lovelace
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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