Love Seeketh Only Self To

Kill Not The Moth Nor Butterfly, For The Last Judgement Draweth Nigh.

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.

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 Inquiry In England Is Not Whether A Man Has Talents And Genius, But Whether He Is Passive And Polite And A Virtuous Ass And Obedient To Noblemen's Opinions In Art And Science. If He Is, He Is A Good Man. If Not, He Must Be Starved.

The Lamb Misused Breeds Public Strife And Yet Forgives The Butcher's Knife.