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   English Poetry I: From Chaucer to Gray.
The Harvard Classics.  1909–14.
 
247. A Supplication
 
Abraham Cowley (1618–1667)
 
 
    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        5
    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        10
  A kind of numerous trembling make.
    Now all thy forces try;
    Now all thy charms apply;
Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye.
 
    Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure        15
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;        20
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;        25
    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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