Then imitate the action of the tiger; stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood.
I have pursued her, as love hath pursued me
I love thee, I love thee with a love that shall not die. Till the sun grows cold and the stars grow old.
Truth hath a quiet breast.
Your hearts are mighty, your skins are whole.
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.