Awake, thou spring of speaking grace, mute rest becomes not thee;
The fayrest women, while they sleepe, and Pictures equall bee.
O come and dwell in loves discourses,
Old renuing, new creating.
The words which thy rich tongue discourses
Are not of the common rating.

Thy voyce is an an Eccho cleare which Musicke doth beget,
Thy speech is as an Oracle which none can counterfeit:
For thou alone, without offending,
Hast obtain'd power of enchanting;
And I could heare thee without ending,
Other comfort never wanting.

Some little reason brutish lives with humane glory share;
But language is our proper grace, from which they sever'd are.
As brutes in reason man surpasses,
Men in speech excell each other:
If speech be then the best of graces,
Doe it not in slumber smother.