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.

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?

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.

I am rich beyond the dreams of avarice.

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

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