Trifles Make Perfection, And Perfection

Beauty Is The Purgation Of Superfluities.

I Criticise By Creation, Not By Finding Fault.

There Is No Tongue To Speak His Eulogy; Too Brightly Burned His Splendour For Our Eyes: Far Easier To Condemn His Injurers, Than For The Tongue To Reach His Smallest Worth. He To The Realms Of Sinfulness Came Down, To Teach Mankind; Ascending Then To God, Heaven Unbarred To Him Her Lofty Gates, To Whom His Country Hers Refused To Ope. Ungrateful Land, To Its Own Injury Nurse Of His Fate! Well Too Does This Instruct, That Greatest Ills Fall To The Perfectest. And 'midst A Thousand Proofs, Let This Suffice, That, As His Exile Had No Parallel, So Never Was There Man More Great Than He.

Gazing On Beautiful Things Acts On My Soul.

So Now, From This Mad Passion Which Made Me Take Art For An Idol And A King I Have Learnt The Burden Of Error That It Bore And What Misfortune Springs From Man's Desire... The World's Frivolities Have Robbed Me Of The Time That I Was Given For Reflecting Upon God.