What then in love can woman do? If we grow fond they shun us. And when we fly them, they pursue: But leave us when they've won us.

Beasts kill for hunger, men for pay.

When if or chance or hunger's powerful sway Directs the roving trout this fatal way, He greedily sucks in the twining bait, And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat. Now, happy fisherman; now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!

A rich rogue nowadays is fit company for any gentleman; and the world, my dear, hath not such a contempt for roguery as you imagine.

Fools may our scorn, not envy, raise. For envy is a kind of praise.

I hate the man who builds his name On ruins of another's fame. Thus prudes, by characters o'erthrown, Imagine that they raise their own. Thus Scribblers, covetous of praise, Think slander can transplant the bays.

No retreat. No retreat. They must conquer or die who've no retreat.