A merry heart goes all the way, - A sad one tires inan hour.

Every cloud engenders not a storm.

When Caesar says, 'Do this', it is performed.

O, my offence is rank, it smells to heaven

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.

For we, which now behold these present days, Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.

Truly thou art damned, like an ill-roasted egg, all on one side.