In Beauty Faults Conspicuous Grow; The Smallest

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

What Then In Love Can Woman Do? If We Grow Fond They Shun Us. And When We Fly Them, They Pursue: But Leave Us When They've Won Us.

The Fly That Sips Treacle Is Lost In The Sweets.

No Author Ever Spar'd A Brother.

Woman's Mind Oft' Shifts Her Passions, Like Th'inconstant Wind; Sudden She Rages, Like The Troubled Main, Now Sinks The Storm, And All Is Calm Again.