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.

Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?

But thought's the slave of life, and life time's fool.

Tell them, that, to ease them of their griefs, Their fear of hostile strokes, their aches, losses, Their pangs of love, with other incident throes That nature's fragile vessel doth sustain In life's uncertain voyage, I will some kindness do them.

I had rather live with cheese and garlic in a windmill.

But no perfection is so absolute, That some impurity doth not pollute.

I care not, a man can die but once; we owe God and death.