[Reading.] "To Celia's Spinet.
"Thou soft machine that dost her hand obey,
Tell her my grief in thy harmonious lay."
Poor man!
"To shun my moan to thee she'll fly;
To her touch be sure reply,
And, if she removes it, die."
The device is just and truly poetical.
"Know thy bliss—"
Ay, ay, there I come in.
"Know thy bliss, with rapture shake,
Tremble o'er all thy numerous make;
Speak in melting sounds my tears,
Speak my joys, my hopes, my fears—"
Which all depend upon me.
"Thus force her, when from me she'd fly,
By her own hand, like me, to die."