Nothing is real beyond imaginative patterns men make of reality.

When nations grow old the Arts grow cold And commerce settles on every tree

To the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.

The countless gold of a merry heart, The rubies and pearls of a loving eye, The indolent never can bring to the mart, Nor the secret hoard up in his treasury.

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.

To the eyes of a miser a guinea is more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful proportions than a vine filled with grapes.

The Man who never in his Mind & Thoughts travel'd to Heaven Is No Artist.