The Moor Has Done His Work, The

The Painter Is, As To The Execution Of His Work, A Mechanic; But As To His Conception And Spirit And Design He Is Hardly Below Even The Poet.

Life Is Earnest, Art Is Gay.

It Is Criminal To Steal A Purse, Daring To Steal A Fortune, A Mark Of Greatness To Steal A Crown. The Blame Diminishes As The Guilt Increases.

Everlastingly Chained To A Single Little Fragment Of The Whole, Man Himself Develops Into Nothing But A Fragment; Everlastingly In His Ear The Monotonous Sound Of The Wheel That He Turns, He Never Develops The Harmony Of His Being, And Instead Of Putting The Stamp Of Humanity Upon His Own Nature, He Becomes Nothing More Than The Imprint Of His Occupation Or Of His Specialized Knowledge.

To The Fool-king Belongs The World.