The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.

From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

No ear can hear nor tongue can tell the tortures of the inward hell!

A woman being never at a loss... the devil always sticks by them.

A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.

Oh! might I kiss those eyes of fire, A million scarce would quench desire; Still would I steep my lips in bliss, And dwell an age on every kiss; Nor then my soul should sated be, Still would I kiss and cling to thee: Nought should my kiss from thine dissever, Still would we kiss and kiss for ever; E'en though the numbers did exceed The yellow harvest's countless seed; To part would be a vain endeavour: Could I desist? -ah! never-never.