Still We Love The Evil We Do,

Solitude Is The Surest Nurse Of All Prurient Passions, And A Girl In The Hurry Of Preparation, Or Tumult Of Gaiety, Has Neither Inclination Nor Leisure To Let Tender Expressions Soften Or Sink Into Her Heart. The Ball, The Show, Are Not The Dangerous Places: No, 'tis The Private Friend, The Kind Consoler, The Companion Of The Easy Vacant Hour, Whose Compliance With Her Opinions Can Flatter Her Vanity, And Whose Conversation Can Sooth, Without Ever Stretching Her Mind, That Is The Lover To Be Feared: He Who Buzzes In Her Ear At Court, Or At The Opera, Must Be Contented To Buzz In Vain.

Grief Is A Species Of Idleness.

Locke, Whom There Is No Reason To Suspect Of Being A Favorer Of Idleness Or Libertinism, Has Advanced That Whoever Hopes To Employ Any Part Of His Time With Efficacy And Vigor Must Allow Some Of It To Pass With Trifles.

I Doubt If There Ever Was A Man Who Was Not Gratified By Being Told That He Was Liked By The Women.

Too Much Vigor In The Beginning Of An Undertaking Often Intercepts And Prevents The Steadiness And Perseverance Always Necessary In The Conduct Of A Complicated Scheme.