There Is In True Beauty, As In

Invention Flags, His Brain Goes Muddy, And Black Despair Succeeds Brown Study.

Thus In This Sad, But Oh, Too Pleasing State! My Soul Can Fix Upon Nothing But Thee; Thee It Contemplates, Admires, Adores, Nay Depends On, Trusts On You Alone.

A Hungry Wolf At All The Herd Will Run, In Hopes, Through Many, To Make Sure Of One.

A Wit Should No More Be Sincere, Than A Woman Constant; One Argues A Decay Of Parts, As To Other Of Beauty.

Let Us Be Very Strange And Well-bred:let Us Be As Strange As If We Had Been Married A Great While;and As Well-bred As If We Were Not Married At All.