Delay Not Till Tomorrow To Be Wise;

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.

Beauty Is The Lover's Gift.

If There's Delight In Love, 'tis When I See That Heart, Which Others Bleed For, Bleed For Me.

In My Conscience I Believe The Baggage Loves Me, For She Never Speaks Well Of Me Herself, Nor Suffers Any Body Else To Rail At Me.

O, Nothing Is More Alluring Than A Levee From A Couch In Some Confusion.