Fools May Our Scorn, Not Envy, Raise.

No Author Ever Spar'd A Brother.

Do You Think Your Mother And I Should Have Lived Comfortably So Long Together, If Ever We Had Been Married? Baggage!

Look Round, The Wrecks Of Play Behold; Estates Dismember'd, Mortgaged, Sold! Their Owners Now To Jails Confin'd, Show Equal Poverty Of Mind.

A Man Is Always Afraid Of A Woman That Loves Him Too Much

Whence Is Thy Learning? Hath Thy Toil O'er Books Consumed The Midnight Oil?