| | 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! |
| 5 | | The 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, |
| 10 | | Empties 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. |
| 15 | | So Nero once, with Harp in hand, survey'd |
| | His Flaming Rome, and as it Burnt he Play'd. |