I Use The Verb 'to Torment,' As

I Have Faults Enough, But They Are Not, I Hope, Of Understanding. My Temper I Dare Not Vouch For. It Is, I Believe, Too Little Yielding— Certainly Too Little For The Convenience Of The World. I Cannot Forget The Follies And Vices Of Other So Soon As I Ought, Nor Their Offenses Against Myself. My Feelings Are Not Puffed About With Every Attempt To Move Them. My Temper Would Perhaps Be Called Resentful. My Good Opinion Once Lost, Is Lost Forever.

You Are Too Generous To Trifle With Me. If Your Feelings Are Still What They Were Last April, Tell Me So At Once. My Affections And Wishes Are Unchanged; But One Word From You Will Silence Me On This Subject For Ever.

One Man's Style Must Not Be The Rule Of Another's.

If I Could But Know His Heart, Everything Would Become Easy.

Fine Dancing, I Believe Like Virtue, Must Be Its Own Reward. Those Who Are Standing By Are Usually Thinking Of Something Very Different.