I Nauseate Walking; 'tis A Country Diversion,

Honor Is A Public Enemy, And Conscience A Domestic, And He That Would Secure His Pleasure, Must Pay A Tribute To One And Go Halves With T'other.

Mr Witwould: "pray, Madam, Do You Pin Up Your Hair With All Your Letters? I Find I Must Keep Copies." Mrs Millamant: "only With Those In Verse.... I Never Pin Up My Hair With Prose."

I Came Up Stairs Into The World, For I Was Born In A Cellar.

I Know A Lady That Loves To Talk So Incessantly, She Won't Give An Echo Fair Play; She Has That Everlasting Rotation Of Tongue That An Echo Must Wait Till She Dies Before It Can Catch Her Last Words!

They Come Together Like The Coroner's Inquest, To Sit Upon The Murdered Reputations Of The Week.