I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.

O, nothing is more alluring than a levee from a couch in some confusion.

Women are like tricks by sleight of hand, Which, to admire, we should not understand

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.

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.

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

There is nothing more unbecoming a man of quality than to laugh ... 'tis such a vulgar expression of the passion!