letra de abraham cowley - a supplication - ghizela rowe
awake, awake, my lyre!
and tell thy silent master’s humble tale
in sounds that may prevail;
sounds that gentle thoughts inspire:
though so exalted she
and i so lowly be
tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony
hark, how the strings awake!
and, though the moving hand approach not near
themselves with awful fear
a kind of numerous trembling make
now all thy forces try;
now all thy charms apply;
revenge upon her ear the conquests of her еye
weak lyre! thy virtuе sure
is useless here, since thou art only found
to cure, but not to wound
and she to wound, but not to cure
too weak too wilt thou prove
my passion to remove;
physic to other ills, thou’rt nourishment to love
sleep, sleep again, my lyre!
for thou canst never tell my humble tale
in sounds that will prevail
nor gentle thoughts in her inspire;
all thy vain mirth lay by
bid thy strings silent lie
sleep, sleep again, my lyre, and let thy master die
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