It holds for good polity ever, to have that outwardly in vilest estimation, which inwardly is most dear to us.
Tis the common disease of all your musicians that they know no mean, to be entreated, either to begin or end.
In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be.
How Fortune piles her sports when she begins to practise them!
Let those that merely talk and never think, That live in the wild anarchy of drink
The voice so sweet, the words so fair, As some soft chime had stroked the air; And though the sound had parted thence, Still left an echo in the sense.