Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.
She likes herself, yet others hates, For that which in herself she prizes; And while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.
Words are the weak support of cold indifference; love has no language to be heard.
I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
Women like flames have a destroying power; never to be quenched till they themselves devour.
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.