Ah! My Poor Brain Is Racked And

Tolerance Comes Of Age. I See No Fault Committed That I Myself Could Not Have Committed At Some Time Or Other.

Smoothly And Lightly The Golden Seed By The Furrow Is Covered.

What Matters In Art Is Not Thinking But Making.

I Have Observed That As Long As One Lives And Bestirs Himself, He Can Always Find Food And Raiment, Though It May Not Be Of The Choicest Description.

Man Must Strive, And Striving He Must Err.