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Praises reap not! Joys laugh not! Sorrows weep not!

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
Joys
Praise
Laugh
Sorrow
Laughing
Praises
Joy
Sorrows
Reap
Weep

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The spirits of the air live on the smells Of fruit and joy, with pinions light, roves round The gardens, or sits singing in the trees.
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Some will say, Is not God alone the Prolific? I answer, God only Acts & Is, in existing beings or Men.
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The Stolen and Perverted Writings of Homer & Ovid, of Plato & Cicero, which all men ought to contemn, are set up by artifice against the Sublime of the Bible
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He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.
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I myself do nothing. The Holy Spirit accomplishes all through me.
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My mother groaned, my father wept, into the dangerous world I leapt.
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Sweet babe, in thy face Soft desires I can trace, Secret joys and secret smiles, Little pretty infant wiles.
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He who pretends to be either painter or engraver without being a master of drawing is an imposter.
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He who wants, but doesn't act, is a pest.
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He who would do good to another must do it in Minute Particulars: general Good is the plea of the scoundrel, hypocrite, and flatterer, for Art and Science cannot exist but in minutely organized Particulars.
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Come o'er the eastern hills, and let our winds Kiss thy perfumed garments let us taste Thy morn and evening breath scatter thy pearls Upon our love-sick land that mourns for thee.
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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.
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The fox condemns the trap, not himself.
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Travelers repose and dream among my leaves.
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Acts themselves alone are history, and these are neither the exclusive property of Hume, Gibbon nor Voltaire, Echard, Rapin, Plutarch, nor Herodotus. Tell me the Acts, O historian, and leave me to reason upon them as I please away with your reasoning and your rubbish. All that is not action is not worth reading.
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The roaring of lions, the howling of wolves, the raging of the stormy sea, and the destructive sword, are portions of eternity, too great for the eye of man.
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Think not thou canst sigh a sigh And thy maker is not by Think not thou canst weep a tear And thy maker is not near.
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The mocker of Art is the mocker of Jesus.
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Expect poison from the standing water.
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I will not cease from mental fight Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand.
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