Classic Poem

Chaunt aloud, yee shrill-mouthd quires
of the aire, our chastest fires,
pierce the clouds with sweetest notes
ravishd from your siluer throates:
By my faire's command, descend
some harmonious spheare, and lend
thy Celestiall straines; returne
Thracian Orpheus from thy urne,
thou that couldst so sweetly warble,
as to force the sencelesse marble,
to the topp of Thebes high towers,
and command heauens stronger powers
by the soule-inchaunting noyse
of thy sence-amazing voice,
touch thy Ivory Lute, let fall
from its siluer strings a call,
that may beasts and birds assemble,
let thy nimble fingers tremble
on thy Instrument, and daunce
in Divisions, till a traunce
possesse each vulgar eare, my faire
deserues your most harmonious ayre:
Murmure sweetly springs, and fountaines
gliding from the topps of mountaines,
into th' Vallies bosome; whistle
milde favonius through some thistle,
or some bush, that may divide
thy perfumed breath, lay quite aside
your boystrous blasts, and call to minde
tis my Splendora bids the winde
breathe its softest ayres; what feare yee
to obey, least Joue should heare yee?
and being angry should enquire
what proud mortall dares aspire
to be so prophane, as call
winged Zephirus from his stall,
or command the windes to breathe
aires sweeter then the fragrant wreath
of vernall flora? tell proud Joue,
and the Gods, it is my loue
Does enforce you to obey
what none could command but they:
And my Splendora, let them know
that here's a Goddesse dwells below,
for whom least earth should be too base
her selfe makes heauen of the place;
and whose Divinity makes us all
Excorporate, and Angelicall;
what could be added to his Joy, whose life
were guilded ore with so divine a wife?