And roll themselves over her lubric throat In panting murmurs, ’stilled out of her breast, That ever-bubbling spring, the sugared nest Of her delicious soul, that there does lie Bathing in streams of liquid melody,— Music’s best seed-plot; when in ripened ears A golden-headed harvest fairly rears His honey-dropping tops, ploughed by her breath, Which there reciprocally laboureth. In that sweet soil it seems a holy quire Founded to th’ name of great Apollo’s lyre; Whose silver roof rings with the sprightly notes Of sweet-lipped angel-imps, that swill their throats In cream of morning Helicon; and then Prefer soft anthems to the ears of men, To woo them from their beds, still murmuring That men can sleep while they their matins sing;— Most divine service! whose so early lay Prevents the eyelids of the blushing day. There might you hear her kindle her soft voice In the close murmur of a sparkling noise, And lay the ground-work of her hopeful song; Still keeping in the forward stream so long, Till a sweet whirlwind, striving to get out, Heaves her soft bosom, wanders round about, And makes a pretty earthquake in her breast; Till the fledged notes at length forsake their nest, Fluttering in wanton shoals, and to the sky, Winged with their own wild echos, pratt’ling fly. She opes the floodgate, and lets loose a tide Of streaming sweetness, which in state doth ride On the waved back of every swelling strain, Rising and falling in a pompous train; And while she thus discharges a shrill peal Of flashing airs, she qualifies their zeal With the cool epode of a graver note; Thus high, thus low, as if her silver throat Would reach the brazen voice of war’s hoarse bird; Her little soul is ravished; and so poured Into loose ecstasies, that she is placed Above herself—music’s enthusiast! Shame now and anger mixed a double stain In the musician’s face: Yet once again, Mistress, I come. Now reach a strain, my lute, Above her mock, or be for ever mute; Or tune a song of victory to me, Or to thyself sing thine own obsequy! So said, his hands sprightly as fire he flings, And with a quivering coyness tastes the strings: The sweet-lipped sisters, musically frighted, Singing their fears, are fearfully delighted: Trembling as when Apollo’s golden hairs Are fanned and frizzled in the wanton airs Of his own breath, which, married to his lyre, Doth tune the spheres, and make heaven’s self look higher; From this to that, from that to this, he flies, Feels music’s pulse in all her arteries; Caught in a net which there Apollo spreads, His fingers struggle with the vocal threads, Following those little rills, he sinks into A sea of Helicon; his hand does go Those parts of sweetness which with nectar drop, Softer than that which pants in Hebe’s cup: