When love's well-timed 'tis not a fault of love

When time itself shall be no more, And all things in confusion hurl'd, Music shall then exert it's power, And sound survive the ruins of the world: Then saints and angels shall agree In one eternal jubilee:

On you, my lord, with anxious fear I wait, And from your judgment must expect my fate.

Music, the greatest good that mortals know, And all of heaven we have below.

Music religious heat inspires, It wakes the soul, and lifts it high, And wings it with sublime desires, And fits it to bespeak the Deity.

Consecrate the place and day To music and Cecilia. Let no rough winds approach, nor dare Invade the hallow'd bounds, Nor rudely shake the tuneful air, Nor spoil the fleeting sounds.

Let echo, too, perform her part, Prolonging every note with art; And in a low expiring strain, Play all the concert o'er again.