Words Pay No Debts, Give Her Deeds.

Suit The Action To The Word, The Word To The Action.

That Thou Art Blamed Shall Not Be Thy Defect, For Slander's Mark Was Ever Yet The Fair; The Ornament Of Beauty Is Suspect, A Crow That Flies In Heaven's Sweetest Air.

Oh! That You Could Turn Your Eyes Towards The Napes Of Your Necks, And Make But An Interior Survey Of Your Good Selves.

Go, Bid The Soldiers Shoot.

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.