Every woman is at heart a rake.

Woman's at best a contradiction still.

A generous friendship no cold medium knows, Burns with one love, with one resentment glows.

The difference is too nice - Where ends the virtue or begins the vice.

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land? All fear, none aid you, and few understand.

Great oaks grow from little acorns. He has a green thumb. He has green fingers. He's sowing his wild oats. Here Ceres' gifts in waving prospect stand, And nodding tempt the joyful reaper's hand.

What woeful stuff this madrigal would be, In some starved hackney sonneteer, or me! But let a lord once own the happy lines, How the wit brightens! how the style refines!