She likes herself, yet others hates, For that which in herself she prizes; And while she laughs at them, forgets She is the thing that she despises.
No, I'm no enemy to learning; it hurts not me.
Delay not till tomorrow to be wise; tomorrow's sun to thee may neve rise.
I am a fool, I know it; and yet, Heaven help me, I'm poor enough to be a wit.
Guilt is ever at a loss, and confusion waits upon it; when innocence and bold truth are always ready for expression.
A wit should no more be sincere, than a woman constant; one argues a decay of parts, as to other of beauty.