Sweet Voice, do thou begin
With sorrow
Singing of the sour herb sin;
Fair-blossomed now and small, but on the morrow
Most harshly fruited
And deeply rooted:
Sigh thou, “O peace,
Parch up the evil herb and wither him.”
Nay, gentle Lute, hear there the Cherubim!
So; cease.
Dost thou not mark the Air,
That Majesty,
That Paragon of grave and fair?
Keen exaltatiön and coron’d beauty:
Sweet melancholy
At length made wholly
The mate of peace;
Well dost thou say, “Impatient of my State,
Silent henceforth I stand at heaven’s gate:”
So; cease.