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

Who pleases one against his will.

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.

If happiness in self-content is placed, The wise are wretched, and fools only blessed.

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

She once used me with that insolence, that in revenge I took her to pieces; sifted her, and separated her failings; I studied 'em, and got 'em by rote. The catalogue was so large, that I was not without hopes, one day or other to hate her heartily.

I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.