Classic Poem

O Sacred Musick, Nurse of Raptures highe,
Which feedst the Soule with diuine Symphony
What words can prayse Thee?
Whose Vertue tunes the discord of the Spheares
And ties thereto Diuine and Humane Eares;
Then can Winde raise Thee?
Whose sweetest Aires do breathe foorth Wonders Winde,
Which mounts aboue it selfe, the beauiest Minde
In spight of Nature:
Whose holic Accents are so full of force
As can the Soule from Body quite deuorce
Of sullenst Creature!
What is so dull of Sprite that hath but life
That loues thee not? Or who so full of strife
To hate thy Concords?
Sith thou art Shee, who, with Soule pleasing Straines.
All peruerse Passions of the Mind constraines
To cease their Discords!
Our Soules (whome some suppos'd but Musicke were,
Because they moued are as It doth steere)
Do glorifie Thee!
The sacred Quires that ring about the Throne
Of that most sacred ESSENCE, Three in One
Do sanctifie Thee!
That Holy, Holy, Holy which They crie
That are Sub-chaunters of Heau'ns Hermony
Records, thy glory;
What shall I say? both Heau'n, and Earth conspires
To raise the same past reach of what aspires,
If transitorie!
And, in a Worde, if I might censure Thee
(That, next my Neerest, art beloud of mee)
Thou art that Pleasure,
Who in thy sweetest Notes, (as well I note)
Hast [like that Blisse that by sweete Concord's got]
Nor Meane, nor Measure!