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Perswade me not, there is a grace
Proceeds from Silvia’s voyce, or lute,
Against Miranda’s charming face,
To make her hold the least dispute.
Musick, which tunes the Soul for Love,
And Stirrs up, all our soft desires,
Does but the growing flame improve,
Which pow’rfull beauty, first inspires.
Thus, whilst with art, she play’s, and Sings,
I, to Miranda Standing by,
Impute the musick, of the Strings,
And all the melting words, apply.