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.   
  
Every thing 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. 

The Clown, singing

O Mistress mine, where are you roaming?  
O stay and hear! your true-love’s coming  
That can sing both high and low;  
Trip no further, pretty sweeting,  
Journeys end in lovers’ meeting—          
Every wise man’s son doth know.  
  
What is love? ’tis not hereafter;  
Present mirth hath present laughter;  
What’s to come is still unsure:  
In delay there lies no plenty,—          
Then come kiss me, Sweet-and-twenty,  
Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

Caliban speaks to Stephano and Trinculo.

Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.