Then my verse I dishonor, my pictures despise, my person degrade and my temper chastise; and the pen is my terror, the pencil my shame; and my talents I bury, and dead is my fame.

The fool who persists in his folly will become wise.

Prudence is a rich, ugly, old maid courted by incapacity.

This life's dim windows of the soul Distorts the heavens from pole to pole And leads you to believe a lie When you see with, not through, the eye.

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

You smile with pomp and rigor, you talk of benevolence and virtue; I act with benevolence and virtue and get murdered time after time.

He who makes his law a curse, by his own law shall surely die.