Sorrow breaks seasons and reposing hours, Makes the night morning, and the noontide night.

Fore God, you have here a goodly dwelling and a rich.

My thoughts are whirled like a potter's wheel; I know not where I am nor what I do.

Ay me! for aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But, either it was different in blood,- Or else it stood upon the choice of friends,- Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it.

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.

Since mine own doors refuse to entertain me, I'll knock elsewhere, to see if they'll disdain me

Be to yourself as you would to your friend.