Blessings ever wait on virtuous deeds, and though a late, a sure reward succeeds.

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

I know that’s a secret, for it’s whispered everywhere.

They are at the end of the gallery; retired to their tea and scandal, according to their ancient custom.

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.

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.

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