Where gripinge grefes the hart would wounde, And dolefulle dumps the mynde oppresse, There musicke with her silver-sound With spede is wont to send redresse: Of trobled mynds, in every sore, Swete musick hath a salve in store. In joy yt maks our mirthe abounde, In woe yt cheres our hevy sprites; Be-strawghted heads relyef hath founde, By musickes pleasant swete delights; Our senses all, what shall I say more? Are subjecte unto musick's lore. The Gods by musicke have theire prayse; The lyfe, the soul therein doth joye; For, as the Romayne poet sayes, In seas, whom pyrats would destroy, A dolphin saved from death most sharpe Arion playing on his harpe. O heavenly gyfte, that rules the mynd, Even as the sterne doth rule the shippe! O musicke, whom the Gods assinde To comforte manne, whom cares would nippe! Since thow both man and beste doest move, What beste ys he, wyll the disprove? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON THE DEATH OF RICHARD WEST by THOMAS GRAY SONNET: 18. ON THE LATE MASSACRE IN PIEDMONT by JOHN MILTON STANZAS COMPOSED AT CARNAC by MATTHEW ARNOLD A DESCRIPTION OF LONDON by JOHN BANCKS AFTERGLOW by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN |