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.

He who closes his ears to the views of others shows little confidence in the integrity of his own views.

Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.

If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.

I nauseate walking; 'tis a country diversion, I loathe the country.

Defer not till to-morrow to be wise, To-morrow's Sun to thee may never rise; Or should to-morrow chance to cheer thy sight With her enlivening and unlook'd for light, How grateful will appear her dawning rays! As favours unexpected doubly please.

Mr Witwould: "Pray, madam, do you pin up your hair with all your letters? I find I must keep copies." Mrs Millamant: "Only with those in verse.... I never pin up my hair with prose."