He that knew all the power of numbers flown;
Alas! too soon; even he
Whose skilful harmony
Had charms for all the ills that we endure,
And could apply a certain cure.
From pointed griefs he'd take the pain away;
Even ill nature did his lyre obey,
And in kind thoughts his artful hand repay:
His layes to anger and to war could move,
Then calm the tempest they had raised with love,