The true way to mourn the dead is to take care of the living who belong to them.—Burke.
No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
Give warning to the world that I am fled.
—Shakespeare.
Music.—Music is the medicine of an afflicted mind, a sweet sad measure is the balm of a wounded spirit; and joy is heightened by exultant strains.—Henry Giles.
Sweet music! sacred tongue of God.—Charles G. Leland.
Music is the fourth great material want of our natures,—first food, then raiment, then shelter, then music.—Bovee.
When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music, with her silver sound,
With speedy help doth lend redress.
—Shakespeare.
Some of the fathers went so far as to esteem the love of music a sign of predestination; as a thing divine, and reserved for the felicities of heaven itself.—Sir W. Temple.
I think sometimes could I only have music on my own terms; could I live in a great city, and know where I could go whenever I wished the ablution and inundation of musical waves, that were a bath and a medicine.—Emerson.
Music hath charms to soothe a savage breast,
To soften rocks, or bend a knotted oak.
—Congreve.
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears.
—Byron.