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[Such moving sounds, from such a careless touch]

Such moving sounds, from such a careless touch,
So unconcern'd herself and we so much.
What art is this, that with so little pains
Transports us thus, and o'er our spirit reigns?

185

The trembling strings about her fingers crowd,
And tell their joy for every kiss aloud:
Small force there needs to make them tremble so,
Toucht by that hand who would not tremble too?
Here love takes stand, and while she charms the ear,
Empties his quiver on the list'ning deer:
Music so softens and disarms the mind,
That not an arrow does resistance find.
Thus the fair tyrant celebrates the prize,
And acts herself the triumph of her eyes.
So Nero once, with harp in hand survey'd
His flaming Rome, and as it burnt he play'd.