It Is Because Of Men That Women

A Simple Garb Is The Proper Costume Of The Vulgar; It Is Cut For Them, And Exactly Suits Their Measure, But It Is An Ornament For Those Who Have Filled Up Their Lives With Great Deeds. I Liken Them To Beauty In Dishabille, But More Bewitching On That Account.

I Take Sanctuary In An Honest Mediocrity.

A Coquette Is One That Is Never To Be Persuaded Out Of The Passion She Has To Please, Nor Out Of A Good Opinion Of Her Own Beauty: Time And Years She Regards As Things That Only Wrinkle And Decay Other Women, Forgetting That Age Is Written In The Face, And That The Same Dress Which Became Her When She Was Young Now Only Makes Her Look Older.

Profane Eloquence Is Transfered From The Bar, Where Le Maitre, Pucelle, And Fourcroy Formerly Practised It, And Where It Has Become Obsolete, To The Pulpit, Where It Is Out Of Place.

We Meet With Few Utterly Dull And Stupid Souls: The Sublime And Transcendent Are Still Fewer; The Generality Of Mankind Stand Between These Two Extremes: The Interval Is Filled With Multitudes Of Ordinary Geniuses, But All Very Useful, And The Ornaments And Supports Of The Commonwealth.