Edmund Waller

(1607-1687)

On My Lady Isabella  Playing on the Lute


Such moving sounds, from such a careless touch,
So unconcern'd her self, and we so much!
What Art is this, that with so little Pains
Transports us thus, and o'er our Spirits reigns!
5The trembling Strings about her Fingers crowd,
And tell their Joy for ev'ry Kiss aloud:
Small Force there needs to make them tremble so;
Touch'd by that Hand who would not tremble too?
Here Love takes stand, and while she charms the Ear,
10Empties his Quiver on the list'ning Deer;
Musick so softens and disarms the Mind,
That not an Arrow does Resistance find.
Thus the fair Tyrant Celebrates the Prize,
And acts her self the Triumph of her Eyes.
15So Nero once, with Harp in hand, survey'd
His Flaming Rome, and as it Burnt he Play'd.


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