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

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?

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

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

The lot of critics is to be remembered by what they failed to understand.

I'll tell thee what it says; it calls me villain, a treacherous husband, a cruel father, a false brother; one lost to nature and her charities; or to say all in one short word, it calls me - Gamester.

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.