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

In my conscience I believe the baggage loves me, for she never speaks well of me herself, nor suffers any body else to rail at me.

A little scorn is alluring.

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

Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of 'em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass.

Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.

O ay, letters - I had letters - I am persecuted with letters - I hate letters - nobody knows how to write letters; and yet one has 'em, one does not know why - they serve one to pin up one's hair.