The luxury of doing good surpasses every other personal enjoyment.

Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil O'er books consumed the midnight oil?

'T is woman that seduces all mankind; By her we first were taught the wheedling arts.

Youth's the season made for joys, Love is then our duty.

If the heart of a man is depressed with cares, The mist is dispell'd when a woman appears; Like the notes of a fiddle, she sweetly, sweetly Raises the spirits, and charms our ears.

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.

Do you think your mother and I should have lived comfortably so long together, if ever we had been married? Baggage!