Classic Poem

The air which thy smooth voice doth break
Into my soul like lightning flies,
My life retires whil'st thou dost speak,
And thy soft breath its room supplies.

Lost in this pleasing Extasie
I joyn my trembling lips to thine,
And back receive that life from thee,
Which I so gladly did resign.

Forbear, Platonick fools, t'enquire
What numbers do the soul compose;
No harmony can life inspire
But that which from these accents flows.