The History of Polindor and Flostella With Other Poems. By I. H. [i.e. John Harington] The third Edition, Revised and much Enlarged |
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FLOSTELLAS Lute.
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 | The History of Polindor and Flostella |  |
FLOSTELLAS Lute.
Sight, Smelling, Tasting, Feeling all be gone,And leave with me the officious Eare alone;
Go Slumber, or th' unheeded loytrers play,
Whilst thou attend (Souls Favourite) this way:
Blesse, blesse thy selfe and me, till seem translated
To new divine Ioyes, by that Hand Created.
List, list with reverence; devoutly O
Harken; th' Orbes Minstrelsyes sham'd here below:
Whilst gives Flostel Life to her senceless Lute,
And warbling language to what late was mute.
Harke, what delicious strains and Heavenly rare
Doe as 'twere sweeten, and inrich the Ayre!
Phebean Harps Great Master finds his skill
Scornd by th' Olimpicks, and neglected still
When thou once play'st; all listening unto thee;
T'whom meaner hands like Winds rude blustrings be
Or th' note of bubling Brooks: All Musick is
Untun'd harsh Discord, and but noise to This.
Away all dumpish cares, all puling sorrow
(You Cloud-drove) fly my World, pack til the morrow;
Let me forget I'm Earth, or burdend am
With drosse of flesh, but th' Elementall flame
Seem rarifi'd, turnd Spirits (Ayre doth show
Poore, languid) dance my Bloud, your veins o'erflow
In glad Tides; whilst those highest Soul faculties
Frame all a Masque: that Lute Soule-revels please.
O, ther's a sweetly, sweetly-solemn strain
Has laid all in a slumbring Trance again,
And charm'd all to amazement; view but round,
How strange a Metamorphosis there's found:
Men stand by th' walls, and furnish out the room
Like Arras-pictures, or as to some Tombe
Belong'd for Monuments; whilst only flies
A glimps of Life or Twilight from their Eyes.
Al's turnd a Sepulchre, so whist and dead
A silence raigns: the sweet Death welcomed.
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To dissolution, Nature that Debt pay
Of Vapour-breath, that else some boyling Feaver,
Stone, Poyson, sturdy Gout, or Stab might sever:
Sweet killing Flostel, thus the Soul to stray
To Heaven, 'twere t'have Heaven by the way:
Such death were but to live; the Gaspes to this,
Ore-ravishing Delights, too powerfull bliss.
And then I dye a Martyr by thy Hand,
Though not in wrath; But (spight of countermand)
As fleeting Souls last Farewell, I must kiss
That beauteous hand first: Fool! all's spoyld by this.
| The History of Polindor and Flostella | |