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.