He Who Doubts From What He Sees

Acts Themselves Alone Are History, And These Are Neither The Exclusive Property Of Hume, Gibbon Nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, Nor Herodotus. Tell Me The Acts, O Historian, And Leave Me To Reason Upon Them As I Please; Away With Your Reasoning And Your Rubbish. All That Is Not Action Is Not Worth Reading.

The Ignorant Insults Of Individuals Will Not Hinder Me From Doing My Duty To My Art

A Dog Starved At His Master's Gate Predicts The Ruin Of The State.

Joy And Woe Are Woven Fine, A Clothing For The Soul Divine. Under Every Grief And Pine Runs A Joy With Silken Twine.

The Look Of Love Alarms Because 'tis Filled With Fire; But The Look Of Soft Deceit Shall Win The Lover's Hire.