Men shut their doors against a setting sun.
After your death you were better have a bad epitaph than their ill report while you live.
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
The tongues of dying men enforce attention like deep harmony.
Jesters do oft prove prophets.
Music can minister to minds diseased, pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow, raze out the written troubles of the brain, and with its sweet oblivious antidote, cleanse the full bosom of all perilous stuff that weighs upon the heart.