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.

Sure men were born to lie, and women to believe them!

Nor love, not honor, wealth nor power, can give the heart a cheerful hour when health is lost. Be timely wise; With health all taste of pleasure flies.

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.

How happy could I be with either, Were t'other dear charmer away!

How, like a moth, the simple maid Still plays around the flame!