A Little Scorn Is Alluring.

If This Be Not Love, It Is Madness, And Then It Is Pardonable.

I Nauseate Walking; 'tis A Country Diversion, I Loathe The Country.

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.

Delay Not Till Tomorrow To Be Wise; Tomorrow's Sun To Thee May Neve Rise.

Beauty Is The Lover's Gift.