Tax not so bad a voice to slander music any more than once.
If this were played upon a stage now, I could condemn it as an improbable fiction.
Fight to the last gasp.
The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, are of imagination all compact.
When we our betters see bearing our woes, We scarcely think our miseries our foes.
You common cry of curs! whose breath I hate As reek o' the rotten fens, whose loves I prize As the dead carcasses of unburied men That do corrupt my air, I banish you; And here remain with your uncertainty!