Though music oft hath such a charm to make bad good, and good provoke to harm.

Through tattered clothes great vices do appear; Robes and furred gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold and the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks. Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.

I will be treble-sinewed, hearted, breathed, And fight maliciously; for when mine hours Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth And send to darkness all that stop me.

Their manners are more gentle, kind, than of Our human generation you shall find.

There was a star danced, and under that was I born.

You peasant swain! You whoreson malt-horse drudge!

Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.