Lamentation Is The Only Musician That Always,

As In The Case Of Painters, Who Have Undertaken To Give Us A Beautiful And Graceful Figure, Which May Have Some Slight Blemishes, We Do Not Wish Then To Pass Over Such Blemishes Altogether, Nor Yet To Mark Them Too Prominently. The One Would Spoil The Beauty, And The Other Destroy The Likeness Of The Picture.

It Is Not Histories I Am Writing, But Lives; And In The Most Glorious Deeds There Is Not Always An Indication Of Virtue Or Vice, Indeed A Small Thing Like A Phrase Or A Jest Often Makes A Greater Revelation Of A Character Than Battles Where Thousands Die.

When The Strong Box Contains No More Both Friends And Flatterers Shun The Door.

I See The Cure Is Not Worth The Pain.

Not By Lamentations And Mournful Chants Ought We To Celebrate The Funeral Of A Good Man, But By Hymns; For, Ion Ceasing To Be Numbered With Mortals, He Enters Upon The Heritage Of A Diviner Life. Since He Is Gone Where He Feels No Pain, Let Us Not Indulge In Too Much Grief. The Soul Is Incapable Of Death. And He, Like A Bird Not Long Enough In His Cage To Become Attached To It, Is Free To Fly Away To A Purer Air. . . . Since We Cherish A Trust Like This, Let Our Outward Actions Be In Accord With It, And Let Us Keep Our Hearts Pure And Our Minds Calm.