William Shakespeare on Music
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“The choir, With all the choicest music of the kingdom, Together sung Te Deum.”
“One whom the music of his own vain tongue Doth ravish like enchanting harmony.”
“Wilt thou have music? hark! Apollo plays And twenty caged nightingales do sing.”
“How irksome is this music to my heart! When such strings jar, what hope of harmony?”
“This music crept by me upon the waters, Allaying both their fury and my passion With its sweet air.”
“Music do I hear? Ha! ha! keep time: how sour sweet music is, When time is broke and no proportion kept!”
“Let music sound while he doth make his choice; Then, if he lose, he makes a swan-like end, Fading in music.”
“If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die.”
“The man that hath no music in himself, Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, Is fit for treasons, stratagems and spoils.”
“Preposterous ass, that never read so far To know the cause why music was ordain'd! Was it not to refresh the mind of man, After his studies or his usual pain?”
“You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass.”
“Therefore the poet Did feign that Orpheus drew trees, stones and floods; Since nought so stockish, hard and full of rage, But music for the time doth change his nature.”
“How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness, and the night Becomes the touches of sweet harmony.”
“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.”
“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.”
“There's not the smallest orb which thou behold'st But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubins; Such harmony is in immortal souls; But, whilst this muddy vesture of decay Doth grossly close it in, we cannot hear it.”
“If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O, it came o'er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.”