LXXIV. Roger Tisdale

AWAKE, my Muse, and from this slumb’ring trance

Lightly arise, and on thy wings advance

Thy nimble-soaring spirit to the sunne,

Above the clouds that yet doe overrunne

Thy bright-ey’d beauty! Rowse away this dream,

That eddies in thy braine, like to a stream,

Whose giddy windings with plebeian stormes

Turne and returne, begetting sundry formes.

What though my sighs like clouds do fill the aire,

Thinke it not night: nor let us so duspaire,

As fainting to lye down in sorrowes deepe,

And there take up our last, eternall sleepe.

No, no; shake off the dewfalls of the night

That dampe thy plumes, and soare into the light

With cheerfull notes; whilst I retir’d, sit still,

Sighing a sad faburthen from my quill

To thy more nimble warblings. Let not feare

Distract our hopes: there’s One above will heare,

If all the world neglect us. And for rumours,

Breath’d from the vulgar, which are only tumours

And swelling water-bubbles, that together

Doe rise and fall, according to the weather,

Why should we feare them? Let the inward man

Looke upward, then doe Envy when she can.

Set therefore now thy voice in tune to mine,

In descant manner; and again to thine

I’le tune a ground; and both together we,

Two parts in one, so sweetly will agree,

As, whilst the rabble and rude multitude

With their vncivill clamours doe intrude,

Breaking all law and right, true musick’s lore,

We will in tune them out of tune deplore.