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

Other men it is said have seen angels, but I have seen thee and thou art enough.

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

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

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.

Faith goes out through the window when beauty comes in at the door.

Ay, rail at gaming - 'tis a rich topic, and affords noble declamation. Go, preach against it in the city - you'll find a congregation in every tavern.