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Better to shun the bait than struggle in the snare.
William Blake
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William Blake
Age: 69 †
Born: 1757
Born: November 28
Died: 1827
Died: August 12
Collector
Engraver
Graphic Artist
Illustrator
Lithographer
Painter
Philosopher
Poet
Printer
Theologian
London
England
W. Blake
Uil'iam Bleik
Blake
Bait
Temptation
Struggle
Better
Snare
Shun
Snares
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What is now proved was once only imagined.
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The cistern contains: The fountain overflows.
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A good local pub has much in common with a church, except that a pub is warmer, and there's more conversation.
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Eternity is in love with the productions of time.
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Abstinence sows sand all over The ruddy limbs and flaming hair, But desire gratified Plants fruits of life and beauty there.
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Prisons are built with stones of Law. Brothels with the bricks of religion.
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The lust of the goat is the bounty of God.
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Kill not the moth nor butterfly, For the Last Judgement draweth nigh.
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He who makes his law a curse, by his own law shall surely die.
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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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Such, such were the joys When we all, girls and boys, In our youth time were seen On the Echoing Green.
William Blake
To the eyes of a miser a guinea is more beautiful than the sun, and a bag worn with the use of money has more beautiful proportions than a vine filled with grapes.
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Then the Parson might preach, & drink, & sing, And we'd be as happy as birds in the spring And modest dame Lurch, who is always at Church, Would not have bandy children, nor fasting, nor birch.
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The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see nature all ridicule and deformity... and some scarce see nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, nature is imagination itself.
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Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
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Joys impregnate. Sorrows bring forth.
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Mutual forgiveness of each vice. Such are the Gates of Paradise.
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Then cherish pity, lest you drive an angel from your door.
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What is grand is necessarily obscure to weak men. That which can be made explicit to the idiot is not worth my care.
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The busy bee has no time for sorrow.
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