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. 
Every thing 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.