O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.
Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleasure; Married in haste, we may repent at leisure.
I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.
Honor is a public enemy, and conscience a domestic, and he that would secure his pleasure, must pay a tribute to one and go halves with t'other.
If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.