Lamentation is the only musician that always, like a screech-owl, alights and sits on the roof of any angry man.
Every man may be observed to have a certain strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of complaint on which he dwells in his moments of dejection.
Let no one honour me with tears, or bury me with lamentation. Why? Because I fly hither and thither, living in the mouths of me.
The songs of the dead are the lamentations of the living.
There is not any advantage to be won from grim lamentation.
Joy, sorrow, tears, lamentation, laughter -- to all these music gives voice, but in such a way that we are transported from the world of unrest to a world of peace, and see reality in a new way, as if we were sitting by a mountain lake and contemplating hills and woods and clouds in the tranquil and fathomless water.
Do you not think it a matter worthy of lamentation that when there is such a vast multitude of them [worlds], we have not yet conquered one?
Let no one honour me with tears, or bury me with lamentation. Why? Because I fly hither and thither, living in the mouths of me. [Lat. , Nemo me lacrymis decoret, nec funera fletu. Faxit cur? Volito vivu' per ora virum. ]