To Be Beloved Is All I Need,

The Bride Hath Paced Into The Hall, Red As A Rose Is She.

Men, I Still Think, Ought To Be Weighed Not Counted.

Where Virtue Is, Sensibility Is The Ornament And Becoming Attire Of Virtue. On Certain Occasions It May Almost Be Said To Become Virtue. But Sensibility And All The Amiable Qualities May Likewise Become, And Too Often Have Become, The Panders Of Vice And The Instruments Of Seduction.

Frenchmen Are Like Gunpowder, Each By Itself Smutty And Contemptible, But Mass Them Together And They Are Terrible Indeed!

Friends Should Be Weighed, Not Told; Who Boasts To Have Won A Multitude Of Friends Has Never Had One.