I Know That’s A Secret, For It’s

Words Are The Weak Support Of Cold Indifference; Love Has No Language To Be Heard.

A Woman Only Obliges A Man To Secrecy, That She May Have The Pleasure Of Telling Herself.

She Once Used Me With That Insolence, That In Revenge I Took Her To Pieces; Sifted Her, And Separated Her Failings; I Studied 'em, And Got 'em By Rote. The Catalogue Was So Large, That I Was Not Without Hopes, One Day Or Other To Hate Her Heartily.

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.

Marriage Indeed May Qualify The Fury Of His Passion, But It Very Rarely Mends A Man's Manners.