To Lucasta

by Richard Lovelace


  I laugh and sing, but cannot tell
  Whether the folly on't sounds well;
      But then I groan,
      Methinks, in tune;
Whilst grief, despair and fear dance to the air
    Of my despised prayer.


  A pretty antick love does this,
  Then strikes a galliard with a kiss;
      As in the end
      The chords they rend;
So you but with a touch from your fair hand
    Turn all to saraband.

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