Cards are war, in disguise of a sport.

Don't introduce me to that man! I want to go on hating him, and I can't hate a man whom I know.

Science has succeeded to poetry, no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil?

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid

In the indications of female poverty there can be no disguise. No woman dresses below herself from caprice.

Oh, ever thus, from childhood's hour, I 've seen my fondest hopes decay; I never loved a tree or flower But 't was the first to fade away. I never nurs'd a dear gazelle, To glad me with its soft black eye, But when it came to know me well And love me, it was sure to die.