Full Lyrics
Cynthia, thy song and chanting,
So strange a flame in gentle hearts awaketh,
That every cold desire wanton love maketh,
Sounds to thy praise and vaunting,
Of syrens most commended,
That with delightful tunes for praise contended;
For when thou sweetly soundest,
Thou neither kill'st nor woundest,
But dost revive a number
Of bodies buried in perpetual slumber.
