In Commendation Of Musick

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When whispering straynes doe softly steale
With creeping passion through the hart,
And when at every touch wee feele
Our pulses beate and beare a part;
 When thredds can make
 A hartstring shake
 Can scarce deny
The soule consists of harmony.

When unto heavenly joy wee feyne
Whatere the soule affecteth most,
Which onely thus wee can explayne
By musick of the winged hoast,
 Whose layes wee think
 Make starres to winke,
 Can scarce deny
Our soules consist of harmony.

O lull mee, lull mee, charming ayre,
My senses rock with wonder sweete;
Like snowe on wooll thy fallings are,
Soft, like a spiritts, are thy feete:
 Greife who need feare
 That hath an eare?
 Down lett him lye
 And slumbring dye,
And change his soule for harmony.

© William Strode