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Such musick (as 'tis said)

Before was never made,

But when of old the sons of morning sung,

While the Creator great

His constellations set,

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;

And cast the dark foundations deep,

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

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If ye have power to touch our senses so;

And let your silver chime

Move in melodious time;

And let the base of Heaven's deep organ blow;

And, with your ninefold harmony,

Make up full consort to the angelick symphony.

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For, if such holy song

Enwrap our fancy long,

Time will run back, and fetch the age of gold; And speckled Vanity

Will sicken soon and die,

And leprous Sin will melt from earthly mould;

And Hell itself will pass away,

And leave her dolorous mansions to the peering day.

Yea, Truth and Justice then

Will down return to men,

Orb'd in a rainbow; and, like glorious wearing,

Mercy will sit between,

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