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
Entranced, and lost confusedly;
And by thy music strucken mute,
Die, and be turn'd into a Lute.
More verses by Robert Herrick
- To His Saviour, A Child;A Present, By A Child
- Departure Of The Good Daemon
- Soft Music
- The Mad Maid's Song
- To His Dying Brother, Master William Herrick