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.
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.lewis morris
My tongue's use is to me no more Than an unstringed viol or a harp.william shakespeare
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