There Is No Study That Is Not

Ye Gods, Annihilate But Space And Time, And Make Two Lovers Happy.

No Silver Saints, By Dying Misers Giv'n, Here Brib'd The Rage Of Ill-requited Heav'n; But Such Plain Roofs As Piety Could Raise, And Only Vocal With The Maker's Praise.

Every Professional Was Once An Amateur.

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

Some Place The Bliss In Action, Some In Ease, Those Call It Pleasure, And Contentment These.