In picture we never die, never decay, or grow older

Words paint to the imagination, but every man forms the thing to himself in his own way.

The theatre gives us representations of things..., and there we see a sort of moving, speaking pictures, but these are transient; whereas painting remains and is always at hand.

The pleasure that painting as a dumb art give us, is like what we have from music; its beautiful forms, colours and harmony are to the eye what sounds and the harmony...are to the ear.

Painting is that pleasant amusement...being one of the means whereby we convey our ideas to each other.

But see! the pains begin to fly; Tho’ Venus bled she could not die: See the new phœnix point her eyes, And lovelier from her ashes rise.

Brighter from her disease she shines, As fire the precious gold refines. Thus when the silent grave becomes Pregnant with life as fruitful wombs; When the wide seas and spacious earth Resign us to our second birth;