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by Robert Herrick, 1648

When I thy singing next shall hear,
I’ll wish I might turn all to ear
To drink in notes and numbers such
As blessed souls can’t hear too much;
Then melted down, there let me lie
Entranc’d and lost confusedly,
And, by thy music stricken mute,
Die and be turn’d into a lute.

Published in Hesperides

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