O, she is the antidote to desire.
If this be not love, it is madness, and then it is pardonable.
I find we are growing serious, and then we are in great danger of being dull.
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.
It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.
How hard a thing 'twould be to please you all.