Polonaise Brillante No.1 in D major Opus 4 Henryk Wieniawski Download 'Polonaise Brillante No.1 in D major Opus 4' on iTunes
Discover Shakespeare's incredible descriptions of music with these inspiring quotes.
How silver-sweet sounds lovers' tongues by night. Like softest music to attending ears!
Give me some music; music, moody food Of us that trade in love.
How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears: soft stillness and the night Become the touches of sweet harmony.
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.
Since once I sat upon a promontory, And heard a mermaid on a dolphin’s back Uttering such dulcet and harmonious breath, That the rude sea grew civil at her song, And certain stars shot madly from their spheres To hear the sea-maid’s music.
Music oft hath such a charm To make bad good, and good provoke to harm.
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.
Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me! You would play upon me; you would seem to know my stops; you would pluck out the heart of my mystery; you would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass: and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ; yet cannot you make it speak. 'Sblood, do you think I am easier to be played on than a pipe? Call me what instrument you will, though you can fret me, yet you cannot play upon me.
Play, music! And you, brides and bridegrooms all, With measure heap'd in joy, to the measures fall.
If music be the food of love, play on; Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken, and so die. That strain again! it had a dying fall: O! it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour.
Most heavenly music! It nips me unto listening, and thick slumber Hangs upon mine eyes.
Let there be no noise made, my gentle friends; Unless some dull and favourable hand Will whisper music to my weary spirit.
It is the lark that sings so out of tune. Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.