I Am Rich Beyond The Dreams Of

'tis Now The Summer Of Your Youth: Time Has Not Cropped The Roses From Your Cheek, Though Sorrow Long Has Washed Them.

Honesty Needs No Pains To Set Itself Off.

The Lot Of Critics Is To Be Remembered By What They Failed To Understand.

Can't I Another's Face Commend, Or To Her Virtues Be A Friend, But Instantly Your Forehead Louers, As If Her Merit Lessen'd Yours?

I Am Free In Performing An Action If I Could Have Done Otherwise If I Had Chosen To.