The Object Of Art Is To Give

Diseased Nature Oftentimes Breaks Forth In Strange Eruptions.

True Hope Is Swift, And Flies With Swallow's Wings.

When Faced With A Sea Of Troubles, Take Action, And In So Doing End It.

Nay, Had I Pow'r, I Should Pour The Sweet Milk Of Concord Into Hell, Uproar The Universal Peace, Confound All Unity On Earth.

We All Are Men, In Our Own Natures Frail, And Capable Of Our Flesh; Few Are Angels.