118
Tixall Poetry.
VIII.
To a Lady with a Fine Voice.
Sing, Siren, though thy notes bring death;
Perfume the aire with thy sweet breath.
The winds are still, the river staies
Delighted with thy pleasing laies;
The Gods doe listen, and Love sweares
You drowne the musicke of the spheares.
Perfume the aire with thy sweet breath.
The winds are still, the river staies
Delighted with thy pleasing laies;
The Gods doe listen, and Love sweares
You drowne the musicke of the spheares.
IX.
Constancy.
Reproach me not, though heretofore
I only freedom did adore;
And brag'd that none, though kind, though faire,
The losse of mine could ere repaire;
I only freedom did adore;
And brag'd that none, though kind, though faire,
The losse of mine could ere repaire;
