Come, come, leave business to idlers, and wisdom to fools: they have need of 'em: wit be my faculty, and pleasure my occupation, and let father Time shake his glass.

They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.

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

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

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.

Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.

A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty.