Sing sweetly, that our notes may cause
The heavenly orbs themselves to pause:
And at our music stand as still
As at Jove's amorous will.[251]
So now release them as before,
Th' have waited long enough; no more.
Pan. 'Tis gone, give me't again. O, do not so.
Ron. What hear you now?
Pan. No more than a dead oyster.
O, let me see this wond'rous instrument.
Ron. Sir, this is called an autocousticon.[252]
Pan. Autocousticon![253]
Why, 'tis a pair of ass's ears, and large ones.
Ron. True; for in such a form the great Albumazar
Hath fram'd it purposely, as fitt'st receivers
Of sounds, as spectacles like eyes for sight.
Pan. What gold will buy't?
Ron. I'll sell't you when 'tis finish'd.
As yet the epiglottis[254] is unperfect.