Celia Singing

Roses in breathing forth their scent,
Or stars their borrowed ornament;
Nymphs in the wat'ry sphere that move,
Or Angels in their orbs above;
The wingéd chariot of the light,
Or the slow silent wheels of night;
The shade, which from the swifter sun
Doth in a circular motion run;
Or souls that their eternal rest do keep,
Make far more noise than Celia's breath in sleep.

But if the Angel, which inspires
This subtile flame with active fires,
Should mould this breath to words, and those
Into a harmony dispose,
The music of this heavenly sphere
Would steal each soul out at the ear,
And into plants and stones infuse
A life that Cherubins would choose;
And with new powers invert the laws of Fate,
Kill those that live, and dead things animate.