God Wisheth None Should Wreck On A

Where Dost Thou Careless Lie, Buried In Ease And Sloth? Knowledge That Sleeps, Doth Die; And This Security, It Is The Common Moth, That Eats On Wits And Arts, And Oft Destroys Them Both.

I'll Give Anything For A Good Copy Now, Be It True Or False, So It Be News.

Nor Shall Our Cups Make Any Guilty Men; But At Our Parting, We Will Be, As When We Innocently Met.

Where It Concerns Himself, Who's Angry At A Slander, Makes It True.

Whosoever Loves Not Picture Is Injurious To Truth, And All The Wisdom Of Poetry. Picture Is The Invention Of Heaven, The Most Ancient And Most Akin To Nature. It Is Itself A Silent Work, And Always One And The Same Habit.