How Sweet I Roamed From

You Never Know What Is Enough Unless You Know What Is More Than Enough.

Then My Verse I Dishonor, My Pictures Despise, My Person Degrade And My Temper Chastise; And The Pen Is My Terror, The Pencil My Shame; And My Talents I Bury, And Dead Is My Fame.

The Reason Milton Wrote In Fetters When He Wrote Of Angels And God, And At Liberty When Of Devils And Hell, Is Because He Was A True Poet And Of The Devil's Party Without Knowing It.

Works Of Art Can Only Be Produc'd In Perfection Where The Man Is Either In Affluence Or Is Above The Care Of It.

Every Harlot Was A Virgin Once.