Every Fault Of The Mind Becomes More

Like Warmed-up Cabbage Served At Each Repast, The Repetition Kills The Wretch At Last.

There Will He Nothing More That Posterity Can Add To Our Immoral Habits; Our Descendants Must Have The Same Desires And Act The Same Follies As Their Sires. Every Vice Has Reached Its Zenith.

Rarely Do We Meet In One Combined, A Beauteous Body And A Virtuous Mind.

I Only Feel, But Want The Power To Paint.

Everything In Rome Has Its Price.