The crow wished everything was black, the Owl, that everything was white.

First thought is best in Art, second in other matters.

How can the bird that is born for joy Sit in a cage and sing? How can a child, when fears annoy, But droop his tender wing, And forget his youthful spring?

To Mercy, Pity, Peace and Love All pray in their distress, And to these virtues of delight Return their thankfulness.

He who pretends to be either painter or engraver without being a master of drawing is an imposter.

Mercy is the golden chain by which society is bound together.

All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled; Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.