I know a lady that loves to talk so incessantly, she won't give an echo fair play; she has that everlasting rotation of tongue that an echo must wait till she dies before it can catch her last words!

I came up stairs into the world, for I was born in a cellar.

A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty.

I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.

Love's but a frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined.

Words are the weak support of cold indifference; love has no language to be heard.

Delay not till tomorrow to be wise; tomorrow's sun to thee may neve rise.