But you shall not escape my iambics.

I hate and love. You ask, perhaps, how can that be? I know not, but I feel the agony.

My mind's sunk so low, Claudia, because of you, wrecked itself on your account so bad already, that I couldn't like you if you were the best of women, -or stop loving you, no matter what you do.

Oh, this age! How tasteless and ill bred it is!

The vows that woman makes to her fond lover are only fit to be written on air or on the swiftly passing stream.

So a maiden, whilst she remains untouched, so long is she dear to her own; when she has lost her chaste flower with sullied body, she remains neither lovely to boys nor dear to girls.

Better a sparrow, living or dead, than no birdsong at all.