He That Hath The Steerage Of My

Not Stepping Over The Bounds Of Modesty.

The Blood Weeps From My Heart When I Do Shape, In Forms Imaginary, Th' Unguided Days And Rotten Times That You Shall Look Upon When I Am Sleeping With My Ancestors.

The Object Of Art Is To Give Life A Shape.

See, What A Ready Tongue Suspicion Hath! He That But Fears The Thing He Would Not Know, Hath, By Instinct, Knowledge From Others' Eyes, That What He Feared Is Chanced.

Perseverance, My Dear Lord. Keeps Honour Bright.