Sound, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound,Young voices sing;Wreathe every door with snow-white voices round,For lo! 't is Spring!Winter has passed with its sad funeral train,And Love revives again.
Susanna's music touched the bawdy strings Of those white elders; but, escaping, Left only Death's ironic scraping. Now, in its immortality, it plays On the clear viol of her memory, And makes a constant sacrament of praise.
My tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp.william shakespeare