Classic Poem

An Imitation of Anacreon.

Oft I string the Lydian Lyre,
Oft in noble Strains aspire
To sing the Glories of that Face,
Each secret Charm, each nameless Grace;
But still the disobedient Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

Oft with witty quaint Conceit,
I vainly strive to celebrate
That, which no Colours can reveal
Which we only see, and only feel:
But still the disobedient Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

Farewel, wild impetuous Ode;
Farewel Phaebus y God
Of well turn'd Wit; with all your Train,
The frantick Off-spring of the Brain.
But welcome, gentle Lyre, whose Strings do move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.

Tell her, in soft pathetic Strains,
All my Anguish, all my Pains;
Tell her, I love, I rave, I die;
I dare not speak, I cannot fly.
Tell her, all this, ye gentle Strings, that move
In softest Notes, and murmur nought but Love.