William Blake
When nations grow old, the Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree.
Man please thy maker and be merry set not for this world a cherry.
When nations grow old, the Arts grow cold,
And Commerce settles on every tree.
If we are uncritical we shall always find what we want: we shall look for, and find, confirmations, and we…
The voice of a young man One sticks one's finger into the soil to tell by the smell in what…
Treason doth never prosper: what's the reason? For if it prosper, none dare call it treason.