Classic Poem

To Celia's Spinet.

Thou soft Machine that do'st her Hand obey,
Tell her my Grief in thy harmonious Lay.

To shun my Moan to thee she'll fly,
To her Touch be sure reply,
And, if she removes it, die.

Know thy Bliss, with Rapture shake,
Tremble o'er all thy numerous Make;
Speak in melting Sounds my Tears,
Speak my Joys, my Hopes, my Fears.

Thus force her when from me she'd fly,
By her own hand, like me, to die.