Orpheus with his lute made trees
And the mountain-tops that freeze
Bow themselves, when he did sing:

To his music, plants and flowers
Ever sprung; as sun and showers
There had made a lasting spring

Everything that heard him play
Even the billows of the sea
Hung their heads, and then lay by

In sweet music is such art:
Killing care and grief of heart
Fall asleep, or, hearing, die