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Play, Phœbus, on thy lute; And we will all sit mute, By listening to thy lyre, That sets all ears on fire. Hark, hark, the god does play! And as he leads the way Through heaven the very spheres, As men, turn all to ears.

A just man's like a rock that turns the wrath Of all the raging waves into a froth.

Sing me to death; for till thy voice be clear, 'Twill never please the palate of mine ear.

Frolic virgins once these were, Over-loving, living here; Being here their ends denied, Ran for sweethearts mad, and died. Love, in pity of their tears, And their loss in blooming years, For their restless here-spent hours, Gave them heart's-ease turn'd to flowers.