It was the Telemann, wasn't it?
The slow honeyed complaint of the violin produced those hot tears on your pale cheek,
While the cello brought forth the deep sweet pain of remembered love,
The recorder sighed with you as golden nights of wonder and romance were recalled, cherished, and banished to the ether once more,
And the harpsichord sparkled sadly as it observed your sobbing drooping form on the couch, its tinkling notes caressing you as it attempted to soothe and bring resolution and peace...
It's not your fault, Georg Phillip,
How could you know that
your shimmering masterwork
Would bring the piercing ache
of lost and unrequited love?