University of Virginia Library

PHILLIS her Lute.

Sight, Smelling, Tasting, Feeling, all be gone;
And leave with me th'officious Eare alone:
Go Slumber, (or th'whole Covent) loytrers play;
Thou only attend (Souls Favourite) this way:
Bless, bless thy self and me, till seem translated
To new divine Joyes, by that Hand-Created.
List, list with reverence; devoutly O
Hearken; th'Orbs Minstrelsy's sham'd here below:
While PHILLIS gives Life to her sencless Lute,
And warbling language to what late was mute.
Heark, what delicious strains and Heavenly-rare
Do as twer sweeten, and inrich the Ayr!
Phebean Harps Great Master finds his skill
Scornd by th'Olimpicks, and but slighted still
When thou once playest; all listening unto thee;
T'whom mean hands like to Winds rude blustrings be,
Or th'note of bubling Brooks: All Musick is
Untun'd harsh Discord, and but noyse to This.
Away all dumpish cares, all pulling sorrow,
[You Cloud-drove] fly my vvorld, pack til the morrovv;
Let me forget I'm Earth, or burdened am
VVith dross of flesh, but t'Elemental flame
Seem rarifi'd turn'd Spirits (air does shevv
Poor, languid) dance my blood; your veins oreflovv
In glad tides; vvhilst those highst Soul-faculties
Frame all a Masque: that Lute Soul-revels please.
O, there's a svveetly, svveetly-solemn strain
Has laid all in a slumbering trance again.
And charmd all to amazement; view but round
How strange a Metamorphosis theres found;
Men stand by th'Walls, and furnish out the Room
Like Arras-pictures, or as to some Tomb
Belong'd for Monuments; whilst only flyes
A glimpse of Life or Twilight from their Eyes:
All's turnd a Sepulcher, so whist and dead
A silence raigns; the sweet death welcomed:
O, let me thus expire and melt away
To dissolution, Nature that Debt pay
of Vapour-breath, that else a boyling Feaver,
Stone, Poyson, sturdy Gout, or stab might sever:
Sweet-killing PHILLIS, thus the soul to stray
To Heaven 'twete t'have Heaven by the way:
Such death were but to live; the Gasps to this
Ore-ravishing Delights, too powerful bliss:
And then I dye a Martyr by thy hand
Though not in wrath, but [spight of countermand]
As fleeting souls last Farwel I must kiss
That beauteous Hand, first Fool! Alls spoild by this.