Time Flies On Restless Pinions

An Honest Man You May Form Of Windle-straws, But To Make A Rogue You Must Have Grist.

Life Is Earnest, Art Is Gay.

Man Is Made Of The Wholly Common, And Custom Is His Nurse; Woe Then To Them Who Lay Irreverent Hands On His Old House-furniture, The Dear Inheritance From His Forefathers: For Time Consecrates, And What Is Gray With Age Becomes Religion.

Art Is The Right Hand Of Nature.

Whatever Lives, Lives To Die In Sorrow. We Engage Our Hearts, And Grasp After The Things Of This World, Only To Undergo The Pang Of Losing Them.