They say miracles are past.
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.
A woman would run through fire and water for such a kind heart.
For honesty coupled to beauty, is to have honey a sauce to sugar.
Within the book and volume of thy brain.
Take all the swift advantage of the hours.