JOHN DRYDEN

GRAND CHORUS.

As from the power of sacred lays

The spheres began to move, And sung the great Creator's praise

To all the Blest above ; So when the last and dreadful hour This crumbling pageant shall devour, The trumpet shall be heard on high, The dead shall live, the living die, And Music shall untune the sky !

��400. Ah^ how sweet it is to love !

A H, how sweet it is to love !

• • Ah, how gay is young Desire !

And what pleasing pains we prove

When we first approach Love's fire! Pains of love be sweeter far Than all other pleasures are.

Sighs which are from lovers blown Do but gently heave the heart:

Ev'n the tears they shed alone

Cure, like trickling balm, their smart:

Lovers, when they lose their breath,

Bleed away in easy death.

Love and Time with reverence use, Treat them like a parting friend;

Nor the golden gifts refuse Which in youth sincere they send :

For each year their price is more,

And they less simple than before.

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