My silks and fine array, My smiles and languished air, By love are driv'n away And mournful lean Despair Brings me yew to deck my grave: Such end true lovers have.
He whose face gives no light, shall never become a star.
The Man who pretends to be a modest enquirer into the truth of a self-evident thing is a Knave.
I am in you and you in me, mutual in divine love.
The Old and New Testaments are the Great Code of Art.
Imagination is the real and eternal world of which this vegetable universe is but a faint shadow.