Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on; Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd, Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

A moment's thought is passion's passing knell.

Four seasons fill the measure of the year; there are four seasons in the minds of men.

Music's golden tongue Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

Fanatics have their dreams, wherewith they weave a paradise for a sect.

For axioms in philosophy are not axioms until they are proved upon our pulses.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty