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As the caterpillar chooses the fairest leaves to lay her eggs on, so the priest lays his curse on the fairest joys.
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
Lays
Caterpillars
Leaves
Priest
Atheism
Chooses
Joy
Joys
Hell
Priests
Heaven
Eggs
Religion
Curse
Caterpillar
Atheist
Fairest
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Innocence dwells with Wisdom, but never with ignorance.
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A musician, an artist, an architect: the man or woman who is not one of these is not a Christian.
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But most thro' midnight streets I hear How the youthful Harlots curse Blasts the new-born Infants tear And blights with plagues the Marriage hearse
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Those who restrain their desires, do so because theirs is weak enough to be restrained.
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Time is the mercy of Eternity without Time's swiftness Which is the swiftest of all things, all were eternal torment.
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I am under the direction of messengers from Heaven daily and nightly.
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When a sinister person means to be your enemy, they always start by trying to become your friend.
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Rome & Greece swept Art into their maw & destroy'd it a Warlike State never can produce Art. It will Rob & Plunder & accumulate into one place, & Translate & Copy & Buy & Sell & Criticize, but not Make.
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The pure soul shall mount on native wings, . . . and cut a path into the heaven of glory.
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Little Lamb, who made thee? Dost thou know who made thee?
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The true method of knowledge is experiment.
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Forgive what you do not approve & love me for this energetic exertion of my talent
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He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light than his perishing and mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all.
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Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!
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Imitation is criticism.
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The Man who never in his Mind & Thoughts travel'd to Heaven Is No Artist.
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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.
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Man has closed himself up, till he sees all things thro' narrow chinks of his cavern.
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