William Shakespeare (1564–1616)

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 been 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.