O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.

It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.

Love's but the frailty of the mind, When 'tis not with ambition joined; A sickly flame, which if not fed expires; And feeding, wastes in self-consuming fires.

How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.

Would any thing but a madman complain of uncertainty? Uncertainty and expectation are joys of life; security is an insipid thing; and the overtaking and possessing of a wish discovers the folly of the chase.

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.

Say what you will, 'tis better to be left than never to have been loved.