Words are the weak support of cold indifference; love has no language to be heard.
I confess freely to you, I could never look long upon a monkey, without very mortifying reflections.
They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.
Nothing but you can lay hold of my mind, and that can lay hold of nothing but you.
O, she is the antidote to desire.
They come together like the Coroner's Inquest, to sit upon the murdered reputations of the week.