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.
More verses by William Shakespeare
- When That I Was And A Little Tiny Boy
- That Time Of Year Thou Mayst In Me Behold (Sonnet 73)
- Sonnet 105: Let Not My Love Be Called Idolatry
- Sonnet 103: Alack, What Poverty My Muse Brings Forth
- Sonnet 106: When In The Chronicle Of Wasted Time