To Mr. C. B. On his Incomparable SINGING

THE Honour that the Air receives
From thy Melodious Voice,
Sure makes it grieve it• cannot giv
More Echoes to the noise.

Whilst Atoms joyfully advance,
In happy Consort they
Do in a nimble careless Dance,
Thy charming Notes obey.

Birds have been said to fall down dead
At th' shouting of a throng;
Had'st thou been there, it had been said,
Thou'dst rais'd 'em with a Song.

If th' Mind upon the Body works
By secret Sympathies;
Who knows what in thy Musick lurks,
To cure all Maladies.

If Fate this Physick shou'd prefer,
Thy Practice is decreed;
All London and Montpelier-
Physicians shall exceed.

Hence forward then let Poets Sing
No more of Orpheus;
Since we have one, whose Voice may bring
Health to attend on us.