Beauty is the lover's gift.
Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
Marriage indeed may qualify the fury of his passion, but it very rarely mends a man's manners.
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.
Thou art a retailer of phrases, and dost deal in remnants of remnants.
Thus in this sad, but oh, too pleasing state! my soul can fix upon nothing but thee; thee it contemplates, admires, adores, nay depends on, trusts on you alone.