When Myra sings

When Myra sings, we seek th'enchanting sound,

And bless the notes which do so sweetly wound;

What music needs must dwell upon that tongue

Whose speech is tuneful as another's song?

Such harmony, such wit, a face so fair,

So many pointed arrows who can bear?

The slave that from her wit or beauty flies,

If she but reach him with her voice, he dies.