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Music, thou queen of heaven, care-charming spell, That strik'st a stillness into hell: Thou that tam'st tigers, and fierce storms that rise, With thy soul-melting lullabies, Fall down, down, down from those thy chiming spheres, To charm our souls, as thou enchant'st our ears.

Sweet western wind, whose luck it is, Made rival with the air, To give Perenna's lip a kiss, And fan her wanton hair. Bring me but one, I'll promise thee, Instead of common showers, Thy wings shall be embalm'd by me, And all beset with flowers.

Why do not all fresh maids appear To work love's sampler only here, Where spring-time smiles throughout the year? Are not here rosebuds, pinks, all flowers Nature begets by th' sun and showers, Met in one hearse-cloth to o'erspread The body of the under-dead?