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

To friendship every burden's light.

Who hath not heard the rich complain Of surfeits, and corporeal pain? He barr'd from every use of wealth, Envies the ploughman's strength and health.

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

A man is always afraid of a woman that loves him too much

Variety's the source of joy below, From whence still fresh-revolving pleasures flow, In books and love the mind one end pursues, And only change the expiring flames renews.

I never, with important air, In conversation overbear. . . . . My tongue within my lips I rein; For who talks much must talk in vain.