How Odd It Is That We So

It Is Foolish To Wish For Beauty. Sensible People Never Either Desire It For Themselves Or Care About It In Others. If The Mind Be But Well Cultivated, And The Heart Well Disposed, No One Ever Cares For The Exterior.

Adieu! But Let Me Cherish, Still, The Hope With Which I Cannot Part. Contempt May Wound, And Coldness Chill, But Still It Lingers In My Heart. And Who Can Tell But Heaven, At Last, May Answer All My Thousand Prayers, And Bid The Future Pay The Past With Joy For Anguish, Smiles For Tears?

You Need Not Fear Me, For I Not Only Should Think It Wrong To Marry A Man That Was Deficient In Sense Or In Principle, But I Should Never Be Tempted To Do It; For I Could Not Like Him, If He Were Ever So Handsome, And Ever So Charming, In Other Respects; I Should Hate Him—despise Him—pity Him—anything But Love Him. My Affections Not Only Ought To Be Founded On Approbation, But They Will And Must Be So: For, Without Approving, I Cannot Love. It Is Needless To Say, I Ought To Be Able To Respect And Honour The Man I Marry, As Well As Love Him, For I Cannot Love Him Without.

But Smiles And Tears Are So Alike With Me, They Are Neither Of Them Confined To Any Particular Feelings: I Often Cry When I Am Happy, And Smile When I Am Sad.

There Are Great Books In This World And Great Worlds In Books.