They parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.

For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn?

We do not suffer by accident.

What do you know of my heart? What do you know of anything but your own suffering?

I am sorry to tell you that I am getting very extravagant and spending all my money: and what is worse for you, I have been spending yours too.

Not keep a journal! How are your absent cousins to understand the tenor of your life in Bath without one? How are the civilities and compliments of every day to be related as they ought to be, unless noted down every evening in a journal? How are your various dresses to be remembered, and the particular state of your complexion, and curl of your hair to be described in all their diversities, without having constant recourse to a journal?

Is not poetry the food of love?