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

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.

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

To find a young fellow that is neither a wit in his own eye, nor a fool in the eye of the world, is a very hard task.

O fie, miss, you must not kiss and tell.

Nor Hell a Fury, like a Woman scorn'd.

Every man plays the fool once in his live, but to marry is playing the fool all one's life long.