I can no other answer make, but, thanks, and thanks.
Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear
That god forbid, that made me first your slave, I should in thought control your times of pleasure, Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave, Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
Their savage eyes turned to a modest gaze by the sweet power of music.
When Death doth close his tender dying eyes.
Weed your better judgments of all opinion that grows rank in them.