'Tis now the summer of your youth: time has not cropped the roses from your cheek, though sorrow long has washed them.

Beauty has wings, and too hastily flies, and love, unrewarded, soon sickens and dies.

Can't I another's face commend, Or to her virtues be a friend, But instantly your forehead louers, As if her merit lessen'd yours?

Now, in my opinion, a woman has no business with Power-Power admits no equal, and dismisses friendship for flattery. Besides, it keeps the men at a distance, and that is not always what we wish.

The hours I spend with you I look upon as sort of a perfumed garden, a dim twilight, and a fountain singing to it. You and you alone make me feel that I am alive. Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.

All moral laws are merely statements that certain kinds of actions will have good effects.

But from the hoop's bewitching round, Her very shoe has power to wound.