In sweet music is such art: killing care and grief of heart fall asleep, or hearing, die.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.
They that have voice of lions and act of hares,--are they not monsters?
Ere I could make thee open thy white hand, and clap thyself my love; then didst thou utter, I am your's for ever!
Live how we can, yet die we must.
A true repentance shuns the evil itself, more than the external suffering or the shame.