Authors Must Not, Like Chinese Soldiers, Expect

Sculpture Is More Divine, And More Like Nature, That Fashions All Her Works In High Relief, And That Is Sculpture. This Vast Ball, The Earth, Was Moulded Out Of Clay, And Baked In Fire; Men, Women, And All Animals That Breathe Are Statues, And Not Paintings.

It Is Autumn; Not Without But Within Me Is The Cold. Youth And Spring Are All About; It Is I That Have Grown Old.

The Air Of Summer Was Sweeter Than Wine.

You Would Attain To The Divine Perfection.

My Own Thoughts Are My Companions.