Music Is Inarticulate Poesy.

Content With Poverty, My Soul I Arm; And Virtue, Though In Rags, Will Keep Me Warm.

Music, Music For A While Shall All Your Cares Beguile. Alexander's Feast

And, Dying, Bless The Hand That Gave The Blow.

The True Amphitryon Is The Amphitryon Where We Dine.

Death Ends Our Woes, And The Kind Grave Shuts Up The Mournful Scene.