I shot an arrow into the air, it fell to earth, I knew not where.
Take them, O Death! and bear away Whatever thou canst call thine own! Thine image, stamped upon this clay, Doth give thee that, but that alone!
Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters
Sometimes we may learn more from a man's errors, than from his virtues.
The human voice is the organ of the soul.