The spheres are dull and do not make
Such music as mine ears will take.
The slighted birds may cease to sing,
Their chirpings do not grace the Spring:
The Nightingale is sad in vain,
I care not to hear her complain:
While I have ears and you a tongue,
I shall think all things else go wrong.

The poets feign'd that Orpheus could
Make stones to follow where he would;
They feign'd indeed, but (had they known
Your voice) a truth they might have shown.
All instruments most sadly go
Because your tongue excels them so:
While I have ears, and you a tongue,
I shall think all things else go wrong.