Awake, awake, my Lyre! <br />And tell thy silent master's humble tale <br />In sounds that may prevail; <br />Sounds that gentle thoughts inspire: <br />Though so exalted she <br />And I so lowly be <br />Tell her, such different notes make all thy harmony. <br /> <br />Hark, how the strings awake! <br />And, though the moving hand approach not near, <br />Themselves with awful fear <br />A kind of numerous trembling make. <br />Now all thy forces try; <br />Now all thy charms apply; <br />Revenge upon her ear the conquests of her eye. <br /> <br />Weak Lyre! thy virtue sure <br />Is useless here, since thou art only found <br />To cure, but not to wound, <br />And she to wound, but not to cure, <br />Too weak too wilt thou prove <br />My passion to remove; <br />Physic to other ills, thou'rt nourishment to love. <br /> <br />Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre! <br />For thou canst never tell my humble tale <br />In sounds that will prevail, <br />Nor gentle thoughts in her inspire; <br />All thy vain mirth lay by, <br />Bid thy strings silent lie, <br />Sleep, sleep again, my Lyre, and let thy master die.<br /><br />Abraham Cowley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/a-supplication/
