If you can look into the seeds of time, and say which grain will grow and which will not, speak then unto me.

He lives in fame that died in virtue's cause.

He is the half part of a blessed man, Left to be finished by such as she; And she a fair divided excellence, Whose fullness of perfection lies in him.

There is nothing in the world so much like prayer as music is. ~William Shakespeare

What, no more ceremony? See, my women! Against the blown rose may they stop their nose That kneel'd unto the buds.

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

Sin, that amends, is but patched with virtue.