Author: John6373 (61.144.222.---)
Date: 05-11-06 22:30
<P>The former post was off topic and was thus removed as it was a violation of our
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Art is idea. It is not enough to draw, paint, and sculpt. An
artist should be able to think.
Gordon Woods
When beauty fires the blood, how love exalts the mind. -John Dryden, 1700<P><pre>
CVI
When in the chronicle of wasted time
I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
And beauty making beautiful old rime,
In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,
Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty\'s best,
Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,
I see their antique pen would have express\'d
Even such a beauty as you master now.
So all their praises are but prophecies
Of this our time, all you prefiguring;
And for they looked but with divining eyes,
They had not skill enough your worth to sing:
For we, which now behold these present days,
Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise.
--William Shakespeare</pre>
<P><P><pre>
XIV
Not from the stars do I my judgement pluck;
And yet methinks I have astronomy,
But not to tell of good or evil luck,
Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons\' quality;
Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,
Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,
Or say with princes if it shall go well
By oft predict that I in heaven find:
But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
And constant stars in them I read such art
As \'Truth and beauty shall together thrive,
If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert\';
Or else of thee this I prognosticate:
\'Thy end is truth\'s and beauty\'s doom and date.\'
XV
When I consider every thing that grows
Holds in perfection but a little moment,
That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
Whereon the stars in secret influence comment;
When I perceive that men as plants increase,
Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,
Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,
And wear their brave state out of memory;
Then the conceit of this inconstant stay
Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
Where wasteful Time debateth with decay
To change your day of youth to sullied night,
And all in war with Time for love of you,
As he takes from you, I engraft you new.
--William Shakespeare</pre>
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