“Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear”

“Great Timon, noble, worthy, royal Timon! Ah, when the means are gone that buy this praise, The breath is gone whereof this praise is made: Feast-won, fast-lost; one cloud of winter showers, These flies are couch'd.”

“Lay these Bones in an unworthy Urn,Tombless, with no Remembrance over them.”

“silence is not a langauge, its a weapon to make your dear one to feel”

“Let us not burthen our remembrance withA heaviness that's gone.”

“One touch of nature makes the whole world kin,That all with one consent praise new-born gauds,Though they are made and moulded of things past,And give to dust that is a little giltMore laud than gilt o'er-dusted.The present eye praises the present object.”

“The setting sun, and music at the close,As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,Writ in remembrance more than things long past.”