A Man Is To Be Cheated Into

We First Make Our Habits, And Then Our Habits Make Us.

My Love's A Noble Madness.

Words Are But Pictures Of Our Thoughts.

And Plenty Makes Us Poor.

Beauty, Like Ice, Our Footing Does Betray; Who Can Tread Sure On The Smooth, Slippery Way: Pleased With The Surface, We Glide Swiftly On, And See The Dangers That We Cannot Shun.