To FULVIA Singing.
I
Tho'
Time on the Features of Fulvia hath fed,
And mow'd down the Roses that bloom'd in her Face,
Tho' the Pale in her Cheeks hath supplanted the Red,
And her Beauties to Wrinkles and Horror give Place.
II
Yet Fulvia in spight of her Person and Age,
Well-suited to chill the most amorous Breast,
While she tortures our Sight, she our Ears can engage,
With a Voice, too divine to be justly exprest.
III
So Fiddles, with Vermin and Time half-decay'd,
Discolour'd, and rotten, and dusty, and foul,
If touch'd into Voice, are surprizingly made
To emit such a Sound, as may ravish the Soul.
