A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year.

Here let me sit in sorrow for mankind.

When lovely woman stoops to folly, and finds too late that men betray, what charm can soothe her melancholy, what art can wash her guilt away?

When a person has no need to borrow they find multitudes willing to lend.

Pity and friendship are two passions incompatible with each other.

Popular glory is a perfect coquette; her lovers must toil, feel every inquietude, indulge every caprice, and perhaps at last be jilted into the bargain. True glory, on the other hand, resembles a woman of sense; her admirers must play no tricks. They feel no great anxiety, for they are sure in the end of being rewarded in proportion to their merit.

Every absurdity has a champion to defend it.