And can her voice be still? Nay, fiends themselves
Love music, and would spare to put so much
To silence. O, in her tongue the nightingale
Was dead, having no sweeter cause to live.
She could not die. A thousand thousand angels
Would rush to save her and with silvery wings
Beat back the assaulting devil.
Win. Would I could say
She lives! You drain my heart with every tear
You drop upon this woe. Loved majesty,