Pity swells the tide of love.

But love, like wine, gives a tumultuous bliss, Heighten'd indeed beyond all mortal pleasures; But mingles pangs and madness in the bowl.

A foe to God ne'er was true friend to man, Some sinister intent taints all he does.

What tender force, what dignity divine, what virtue consecrating every feature; around that neck what dross are gold and pearl!

A dearth of words a woman need not fear; But 'tis a task indeed to learn to hear: In that the skill of conversation lies; That shows and makes you both polite and wise.

The person of wisdom is the person of years.

Thoughts shut up want air, And spoil, like bales unopen'd to the sun.