Love's touch is soft, and Death
   Is gentle, when he takes
A sleeping child's light breath,
   Before it wakes;
But neither Death nor Love
Moves softer than I move.
Great is my ecstacy,^[1]
Till generous I
For common pence have sold
The world my purest gold.
No man that's blind
   Has ears more quick to hear;
No man that's deaf and dumb
   Has eyes more sharp and clear.
No wonder then that kings,
Envying the man who sings,
Aspire to wear his crown,
And scorn their own;
No wonder kings aspire
   For crowns not made of gold,
Which - though Time's born a thief -
   Escape his hold.
Two kings have won -
David and Solomon.