Come, with our voices let us war,
And challenge all the spheres,
Till each of us be made a star,
And all the world turn ears.
At such a call, what beast or fowl,
Of reason empty is?
What tree or stone doth want a soul,
What man but must lose his?
Mix then your notes, that we may prove
To stay the running floods;
To make the mountain quarries move,
And call the walking woods.
What need of me? do you but sing.
Sleep, and the grave will wake:
No tunes are sweet, nor words have sting,
But what those lips do make.
They say, the angels mark each deed,
And exercise below;
And out of inward pleasure feed
On what they viewing know.
O sing not you then, lest the best
Of angels should be driven
To fall again, at such a feast,
Mistaking earth for heaven.
Nay, rather both our souls be strain’d
To meet their high desire;
So they in state of grace retain’d,
May wish us of their quire.