Be silent you still musique of the Sphears, And every sense make haste to be all ears, And give devout attention to her aires, To which the Gods doe … - William Strode

Returne my joyes, and hither bring
A tongue not made to speake but sing,
A jolly spleene, an inward feast,
A causelesse laugh without a jest,
A face which gladnesse doth anoynt,
An arm that springs out of his joynt,
A sprightfull gate that leaves no print, And makes a feather of a flint,
A heart that’s lighter than the ayre,
An eye still dancing in his spheare,
Strong mirth which nothing can controule, A body nimbler than the soule,
Free wandring thoughts not tyde to muse Which thinke on all things, nothing choose, Which ere we see them come are gone;
These life itselfe doth feede upon.

Tread soft, for if you wake this Knight alone,
You raise an Hoast: Religions Champion,
His Cuntreys Staffe, Rights bold Distributer,
His Neighbours Guard, the Poor mans Almoner, Who dyes with Works about him, as did He, Shall rise attended thus triumphantly.

This keepes my hands
From Cupid’s bands.