Quotes
Quotes about Art
The thirsty earth soaks up the rain,
And drinks, and gapes for drink again;
The plants suck in the earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
Th' adorning thee with so much art
Is but a barb'rous skill;
'T is like the pois'ning of a dart,
Too apt before to kill.
The inglorious arts of peace.
Man's life is like unto a winter's day,--
Some break their fast and so depart away;
Others stay dinner, then depart full fed;
The longest age but sups and goes to bed.
O reader, then behold and see!
As we are now, so must you be.
Some things are of that nature as to make
One's fancy chuckle, while his heart doth ache.
Great wits are sure to madness near allied,
And thin partitions do their bounds divide.
A man so various, that he seem'd to be
Not one, but all mankind's epitome;
Stiff in opinions, always in the wrong,
Was everything by starts, and nothing long;
But in the course of one revolving moon
Was chymist, fiddler, statesman, and buffoon.
Be kind to my remains; and oh defend,
Against your judgment, your departed friend!
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from his high estate,
And welt'ring in his blood;
Deserted, at his utmost need,
By those his former bounty fed,
On the bare earth expos'd he lies,
With not a friend to close his eyes.
For Art may err, but Nature cannot miss.
Thespis, the first professor of our art,
At country wakes sung ballads from a cart.
Angels listen when she speaks:
She's my delight, all mankind's wonder;
But my jealous heart would break
Should we live one day asunder.
Of all those arts in which the wise excel,
Nature's chief masterpiece is writing well.
Here is bread, which strengthens man's heart, and therefore called the staff of life.
It is common for those that are farthest from God, to boast themselves most of their being near to the Church.
Of all the girls that are so smart,
There's none like pretty Sally.
Now fitted the halter, now traversed the cart,
And often took leave, but was loth to depart.
Soft peace she brings; wherever she arrives
She builds our quiet as she forms our lives;
Lays the rough paths of peevish Nature even,
And opens in each heart a little heaven.
He made it a part of his religion never to say grace to his meat.
If there's delight in love, 't is when I see
That heart which others bleed for, bleed for me.
I 've lately had two spiders
Crawling upon my startled hopes.
Now though thy friendly hand has brush'd 'em from me,
Yet still they crawl offensive to my eyes:
I would have some kind friend to tread upon 'em.
We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman,--scorned, slighted, dismissed without a parting pang.
It must be so,--Plato, thou reasonest well!
Else whence this pleasing hope, this fond desire,
This longing after immortality?
Or whence this secret dread and inward horror
Of falling into naught? Why shrinks the soul
Back on herself, and startles at destruction?
'T is the divinity that stirs within us;
'T is Heaven itself that points out an hereafter,
And intimates eternity to man.
Eternity! thou pleasing, dreadful thought!
Soon as the evening shades prevail,
The moon takes up the wondrous tale,
And nightly to the listening earth
Repeats the story of her birth;
While all the stars that round her burn,
And all the planets in their turn,
Confirm the tidings as they roll,
And spread the truth from pole to pole.
Fly, like a youthful hart or roe,
Over the hills where spices grow.
