On Clarastella singing

Ye that in love delight
Approach this sacred Quire, and feast your ears!
Whilst she the sweetest Syren sings,
Whose musick equals the harmonious spheres,
And perhaps richer pleasure brings!
The dying Swan or Philomel
O'th' wood, not warble's half so wel;
Observe the cadence where each dying sound,
Creates new Eccho's to a sift rebound.
Here's musick to the sight:
She looks and sings with such Majestick grace,
That when I Clarastella hear,
She more than woman seems, her voice and face
Taking at once both eie and eare,
That which of these two senses may
Be most refresht, is hard to say.
To glorifie her after death, Shee'l ne'r
Need change; She's Angel now, and Heav'n is here.