A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty.
They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
I always take blushing either for a sign of guilt, or of ill breeding.
Beauty is the lover's gift.
If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand