Ah, sunflower, weary of time, Who countest the steps of the sun, Seeking after that sweet golden clime Where the traveller's journey is done; Where the youth pined away with desire And the pale virgin shrouded in snow Arise from their graves, and aspire Where my sunflower wishes to go.

A robin redbreast in a cage Puts all heaven in a rage.

He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars.

Christianity is art and not money. Money is its curse.

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.

What is grand is necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.

Without Unceasing Practice nothing can be done. Practice is Art. If you leave off you are lost.