Classic Poem

she: Come with our voices, let us war,
And challenge all the spheres,
Till each of us be made a star,
And all the world turn ears.

he: At such a call, what beast or fowl,
Of reason empty is?
What tree or stone doth want a soul?
What man but must lose his?

she: Mix then your notes, that we may prove
To stay the running floods,
To make the mountain quarries move,
And call the walking woods!

he: What need of me? Do you but sing,
Sleep, and the grave will wake.
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips do make.

she: They say the angels mark each deed,
And exercise below,
And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.

he: O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall again; at such a feast,
Mistaking earth for heaven.

she: Nay, rather both our souls be strained
To meet their high desire;
So they in state of grace retained,
May wish us of their choir.