Sweet recreation barred, what doth ensue but moody and dull melancholy, kinsman to grim and comfortless despair.

There was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass.

And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!

Tis but a base, ignoble mind That mounts no higher than a bird can soar.

To climb steep hills requires a slow pace at first.

My brain more busy than the labouring spider Weaves tedious snares to trap mine enemies.

If music be the food of love, play on.