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.

Who pleases one against his will.

There are come Critics so with Spleen diseased, They scarcely come inclining to be pleased: And sure he must have more than mortal Skill, Who please one against his Will.

Courtship is to marriage, as a very witty prologue to a very dull play.

Men are apt to offend ('tis true) where they find most goodness to forgive.

Uncertainty and expectation are the joys of life. Security is an insipid thing.

It is the business of a comic poet to paint the vices and follies of human kind.