O Mozart, Immortal Mozart, How Many, How

The World Resembles A Stage On Which Every Man Is Playing A Part.

There Are Two Contrary Impulses Which Govern This Man's Brain-the One Sane, And The Other Eccentric. They Alternate At Regular Intervals.

A Man Endures Misfortune Without Complaint.

One Bites Into The Brass Mouthpiece Of His Wooden Cudgel, And The Other Blows His Cheeks Out On A French Horn. Do You Call That Art?

My Compositions Spring From My Sorrows. Those That Give The World The Greatest Delight Were Born Of My Deepest Griefs.