Clarastella playing sweetly on the Lute

That empty guts of beasts, and hollow wood,
So rare a sound should make, what mortal wu'd
Believe? did he not see what heav'nly hand
Made the strings move and breath, at whose command
They died, or Ecchoed from the sacred Quire
Lays, did our souls as wel as them, inspire?
His lost Euridice when Orpheus won,
Alas, his skil compar'd with thine, was none:
He only taught the rocks to dance, you move
Each stony heart, inflam'd by you, to love;
Then with your powr'ful and enchaunting hand
Turn us to stones agen, and make us stand
Like unmov'd Statues, whilst amazed we
Attend the voice of heav'ns blest harmonie,

How the Gods listen to her graceful ayrs
Attentive as to Saints devouter pray'rs?
Wishing shee'd in those dying sounds expire
In swanlike extasie, to fil their quire!
Hark how she whispers from that holy bow'r,
An Ep'taph for each wounded Auditour!
While from her sweeter hand the warbling lyre
Borrows that sweetnes we so much admire.
Toucht by her quickning joints the active strings
Leap to expresse their joys, whilst the sound brings
Such new delight; I could but wish this blisse,
That hearing her, I had no sense but this.