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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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Prisons are built with stones of Law. Brothels with the bricks of religion.
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The world of imagination is the world of eternity. It is the divine bosom into which we shall all go after death of the vegetative body.
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Love to faults is always blind, always is to joy inclined. Lawless, winged, and unconfined, and breaks all chains from every mind.
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What has reason to do with the art of painting?
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For Mercy has a human heart Pity, a human face: And Love, the human form divine, And Peace, the human dress.
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And priests in black gowns were walking their rounds and binding with briars my joys and desires. (from 'The Garden of Love')
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When Sir Joshua Reynolds died All Nature was degraded.
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Travelers repose and dream among my leaves.
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Why stand we here trembling around, calling on God for help, and not ourselves, in whom God dwells?
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No bird soars too high if he soars with his own wings.
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I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.
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God keep me from the divinity of Yes and Nothe Yea Nay Creeping Jesus, from supposing Up and Down to be the same thing as allexperimentalists must suppose.
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I have mental joys and mental health, Mental friends and mental wealth, I've a wife that I love and that loves me; I've all but riches bodily.
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Nature has no outline. Imagination has.
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Colouring does not depend on where the colours are put, but on where the lights and darks are put, and all depends on form and outline, on where that is put.
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Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.
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Drive your cart and plow over the bones of the dead.
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To me this world is all one continued vision of fancy or imagination, and I feel flattered when I am told so. What is it sets Homer, Virgil and Milton in so high a rank of art? Why is the Bible more entertaining and instructive than any other book? Is it not because they are addressed to the imagination, which is spiritual sensation, and but immediately to the understanding or reason?
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please; away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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Mere enthusiasm is the all in all... / Passion and expression are beauty itself.
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All futurity seems teeming with endless destruction never to be repelled; Desperate remorse swallows the present in a quenchless rage.
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Some are born to sweet delight, Some are born to endless night.
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Invention depends altogether upon execution or organization; as that is right or wrong so is the invention perfect or imperfect.