They are happy men whose natures sort with their vocations.

Then bless thy secret growth, nor catch At noise, but thrive unseen and dumb; Keep clean, be as fruit, earn life, and watch, Till the white-wing'd reapers come.

If we do not maintain justice, justice will not maintain us.

You see, painting has now become, or all art has now become completely a game, by which man distracts himself. What is fascinating actually is, that it's going to become much more difficult for the artist, because he must really deepen the game to become any good at all.

And as for Mixed Mathematics, I may only make this prediction, that there cannot fail to be more kinds of them, as nature grows further disclosed.

There ought to be gardens for all months in the year, in which, severally, things of beauty may be then in season.

Fortitude is the marshal of thought, the armor of the will, and the fort of reason.