“No music’s better than the winds do make, If all their several notes right places take: The full, the half, the quarter-note they set; The tenor, bass, and treble there are met. The northern wind a strong big bass doth sing; The east is sweet, like a6 small treble string; The south and west the tenor’s parts do take, And so, all joined, a fine sweet consort make. All that this music meets, it moves to dance, If bodies yielding be with compliance. The clouds do dance in circle, hand in hand, Where in the midst the worldly ball doth stand. The seas do dance with ships upon their back, Where, cap’ring high, they many times do wrack, As men which venture on the ropes to dance Oft tumble down, if they too high advance. But dust, like country clowns, no measure keep, But rudely run together on a heap. Trees grave and civil first bow down their head Towards the Earth, then every leaf outspread, And every twig each other will salute; Embracing oft, they kiss each other’s root. And so each other plant and flower gay Will sweetly dance when as the winds do play. But when they’re out of tune, they discord make, Disorder all—nothing its place can take. But when Apollo with his beams doth play, He places all again in the right way.”