If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.

Love's but the frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame, which if not fed expires; And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.

I nauseate walking; 'tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.

Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion waits upon it; when innocence and bold truth are always ready for expression.

To converse with Scandal is to play at Losing Loadum, you must lose a good name to him, before you can win it for yourself.

There are come Critics so with Spleen diseased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal Skill, Who please one against his Will.

Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.