THE LUTE
Reading edition
Sweet Voice, do thou begin With sorrow Singing of the sour herb sin; Fair-blossomed now and small, but on the morrow Most harshly fruited And deeply rooted: Sigh thou, “O peace, Parch up the evil herb and wither him.” Nay, gentle Lute, hear there the Cherubim! So; cease. Dost thou not mark the Air, That Majesty, That Paragon of grave and fair? Keen exaltatiön and coron’d beauty: Sweet melancholy At length made wholly The mate of peace; Well dost thou say, “Impatient of my State, Silent henceforth I stand at heaven’s gate:” So; cease.