And Nothing Is, But What Is Not.

So Curses All Eve's Daughters Of What Complexion Soever.

I Pray Thee Cease Thy Counsel, Which Falls Into Mine Ears As Profitless As Water In A Sieve.

Do Not Spread The Compost On The Weeds.

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.

Sweet Are The Uses Of Adversity Which, Like The Toad, Ugly And Venomous, Wears Yet A Precious Jewel In His Head.