Nature Meant Me A Wife, A Silly,

We Must Beat The Iron While It Is Hot, But We May Polish It At Leisure.

All Authors To Their Own Defects Are Blind.

He Who Proposes To Be An Author Should First Be A Student.

The Fates But Only Spin The Coarser Clue; The Finest Of The Wool Is Left For You.

For My Part, I Can Compare Her (a Gossip) To Nothing But The Sun; For, Like Him, She Knows No Rest, Nor Ever Sets In One Place But To Rise In Another.