William Strode (1602–1645)

WHEN whispering strains with creeping wind

Distil soft passions through the heart;

And when at every touch we find

Our pulses beat and bear a part;

When threads can make

A heartstring ache,

Philosophy

Can scarce deny,

Our souls are made of harmony.

When unto heavenly joys we faine

Whate’er the soul affecteth most,

Which only thus we can explain

By music of the heavenly host;

Whose lays we think

Make stars to wink,

Philosophy

Can scarce deny

Our souls consist of harmony.

O lull me, lull me, charming air!

My senses rock with wonder sweet;

Like snow on wool thy fallings are;

Soft like a spirit’s are thy feet!

Grief who needs fear

That hath an ear?

Down let him lie,

And slumbering die,

And change his soul for harmony.