She cannot love, nor take no shape nor project or affection, she is so self-endeared

Grief makes one hour ten.

Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.

Fall Greeks; fail fame; honour or go or stay; My major vow lies here, this I'll obey.

Keep time! How sour sweet music is when time is broke and no proportion kept! So is it in the music of men's lives. I wasted time and now doth time waste me.

We make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villians by compulsion.

She's good, being gone.