Classic Poem

To the Lady Wroth. In the descrued praise of heavenly Musick resembling it to God Himselfe.

The motion which the nine-fold sacred quire
Of angells make; the blisse of all the blest,
Which (next the Highest) most fils the high'st desire
And moues but soules that moue in Pleasures rest
The heauenly charme that lullabies our woes,
And recollects the mind that cares distract;
The liuely death of ioyfull Thoughts o'rethrowes:
And brings rare ioyes but thought on, into act,
Which (like the soule of all the world) doth moue
The vniuersall nature of this All;
The life of life and soule of ioy and loue;
High Raptures heauen; the That I cannot call
(Like God) by reall name: And what is this?
But musick (next the Highst) the highest blisse.