As A Man Is, So He Sees.

Sooner Strangle An Infant In Its Cradle Than Nurse Unacted Desires.

Then My Verse I Dishonor, My Pictures Despise, My Person Degrade And My Temper Chastise; And The Pen Is My Terror, The Pencil My Shame; And My Talents I Bury, And Dead Is My Fame.

Man Was Made For Joy And Woe, And When This We Rightly Know Through The World We Safely Go. Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine, A Clothing For The Soul To Bind.

I Love Hanging And Drawing And Quartering Every Bit As Well As War And Slaughtering.

The Pure Soul Shall Mount On Native Wings, . . . And Cut A Path Into The Heaven Of Glory.