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.

When I was at home I was in a better place

Parting is such sweet sorrow

What is a man, if his chief good and market of his time be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.

O, had I but followed the arts!

The apprehension of the good Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.

None can cure their harms by wailing them.