Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted:
Trembling as when Apollo's golden hairs
Are fann'd and frizzled in the wanton airs

Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre,

Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven's self look higher;

From this to that, from that to this he flies,

Feels music's pulse in all her arteries;

Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads,
His fingers struggle with the vocal threads,
Following those little rills, he sinks into

A sea of Helicon; his hand does go

Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop,
Softer than that which pants in Hebe's cup:
The humorous strings expound his learned touch
By various glosses; now they seem to grutch,
And murmur in a buzzing din, then gingle
In shrill-tongued accents, striving to be single;
Every smooth turn, every delicious stroke

Gives life to some new grace; thus doth he invoke
Sweetness by all her names: thus, bravely thus
(Fraught with a fury so harmonious)

The lute's light genius now does proudly rise,
Heaved on the surges of swoll'n rhapsodies;
Whose flourish (meteor-like) doth curl the air
With flash of high-born fancies, here and there
Dancing in lofty measures, and anon
Creeps on the soft touch of a tender tone,
Whose trembling murmurs, melting in wild airs,
Run to and fro, complaining his sweet cares;

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Because those precious mysteries that dwell
In music's ravish'd soul he dare not tell,
But whisper to the world: thus do they vary,
Each string his note, as if they meant to carry
Their master's blest soul (snatch'd out at his ears
By a strong ecstasy) through all the spheres
Of music's heaven; and seat it there on high,
In th' empyreum of pure harmony.

At length (after so long, so loud a strife

Of all the strings, still breathing the best life

Of blest variety, attending on

His fingers' fairest revolution,

In many a sweet rise, many as sweet a fall)

A full-mouth'd diapason swallows all.

This done, he lists what she would say to this;
And she, although her breath's late exercise
Had dealt too roughly with her tender throat,
Yet summons all her sweet powers for a note.
Alas! in vain! for while (sweet soul) she tries
To measure all those wild diversities

Of chatt'ring strings, by the small size of one
Poor simple voice, raised in a natural tone;
She fails, and failing grieves, and grieving dies:
She dies, and leaves her life the victor's prize,
Falling upon his lute: oh fit to have,

(That lived so sweetly,) dead, so sweet a grave!

[RICHARD LOVELACE was born at Woolwich, in 1618, and was educated at Oxford. He was deputed by the county of Kent to deliver a petition to the House of Commons for the restoration of monarchy, and for this he was sent to prison. He expended nearly all he possessed in the cause of Charles I., and then entered the French army; but being wounded at the siege of Dunkirk, he returned to England, and was thrown into prison, where he remained until the king's execution. He then obtained his liberty; but he had lost all his property, and his destitution brought on a consumption, of which he died in 1658, in a miserable alley.

He was a man of fine personal appearance, most accomplished manners, and excellent character. His poems are the productions of his happier days; he dedicated them, under the name of Lucasta, to Lucy Sacheverell, a highly accomplished lady, to whom he was strongly attached, but who, hearing that he had died of his wounds at Dunkirk, married another lover. They show a deep devotion to his king and his mistress, and are both graceful and spirited.]

That from the nunnery

Of thy chaste breast and quiet mind,

To war and arms I fly.

True, a new mistress now I chase,

The first foe in the field;

And with a stronger faith embrace
A sword, a horse, a shield.

Yet this inconstancy is such,
As you, too, shall adore;

I could not love thee, dear, so much,
Loved I not honour more.

When flowing cups run swiftly round

With no allaying Thames,

Our careless heads with roses crown'd,

Our hearts with loyal flames;