For a Young Lord to His Mistris, Who Had Taught Him a Song

Taught from your Artfull Strains, My Fair,
I've only liv'd e'r since by Air;
Whose Sounds do make me wish I were
Either all Voice, or else all Eare.
If Souls (as some say) Musick be
I've learnt from you there's one in me;
From you, whose Accents make us know
That sweeter Spheres move here below;
From you, whose Limbs are so well met
That we may swear your Bodie's Set:
Whose Parts are with such Graces Crown'd,
That th'are that Musick without sound.
I had this Love perhaps before,
But you awak'd and made it more:
As when a gentle Ev'ning Showre
Calls forth, and adds, Sent to the Flower;
Henceforth I'l think my Breath is due
No more to Nature, but to you.
Sing I to Pleasure then, or Fame,
I'l know no Antheme, but your Name;
This shall joy Life, this sweeten Death:
You, that have taught, may claim, my Breath.
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